


Makes the Wind

by cricket_girl, MerryMandolin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Bad Parenting, But he's asking for more than he bargained for, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Plot, Complicated Relationships, Definitely Severitus inspired, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Draco's acting suspicious as hell, Family Issues, Gen, Half Blood Prince AU, Harry wants to be an Order Member, Harry will meet new people and learn new things, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Magical Theory, Mental Illness, Minor Character Death, Muggleborn Politics, Multi, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Plot Twists, Severitus, Severitus-Adjacent?, Snape's a jerk but he'll grow out of it, all kinds of parenting, alternative universe, and lots of things we'll tag over time, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-06-16 00:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 167,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_girl/pseuds/cricket_girl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryMandolin/pseuds/MerryMandolin
Summary: ---For updates and previews of new chapters, follow us on Tumblr: https://cricket-and-merry.tumblr.com/---It was Harry's sixth year, and he wanted to feel useful. It was his sixth year, and he didn't want to feel helpless anymore. In the wake of tragedy, Harry begins his newest year at Hogwarts with a singular goal -- one that sets him on an unforseen path, accompanied by unlikely allies.In the end, he may well get more than he bargained for.





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins a journey long in the making. Welcome to a sixth year AU cooked up by my best friend, MerryMandolin, and I. We've spent years and years theorycrafting and world building, and for it all to culminate here. We hope that you'll join us as we travel down this path and unravel this tale we've wanted to tell for a very, very long time. We hope that you'll enjoy the angst, the drama, and the magic.
> 
> A huge thank you to Henry and Caleb for betaing this work. Your assistance is invaluable. I love you. <3

 

Malfoy was acting strangely.

It started at the Welcoming Feast. Harry had tried not to seek out that head of coiffed, blonde hair but, to his credit, he wasn’t the only one watching the Slytherin table when the uproar began. Although, "uproar" was possibly an overstatement, considering the absolute silence that reigned through the entire ordeal.

When Dumbledore had barely uttered the first sentence of his speech and before the banquet was served or the Sorting Ceremony begun, half the Slytherin table stood and filed out of the Great Hall. They consisted mostly of older students, some Harry recognized and others he didn’t, performing a taciturn march away from the proceedings. This alone sparked a host of whispers from the other tables, but the most notable figure was Malfoy, whom Harry spotted sitting amidst a confused gaggle of lower years. He arose a touch later than the others, expression grim, and, when he did, a passing Slytherin laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat.

After that, he did not move for the entire feast. Harry snuck quick glances at him for the duration: He was always in the same position with his head lowered, shoulders thrown back, hands in his lap. He did not eat and, more importantly, he did not speak to anyone. He simply sat, empty stare anchored to the table until everyone was dismissed to their dorms two hours later.

Since then, Malfoy had only come to a handful of dinners, but his temperament grew more and more despicable. Wherever he appeared, everyone knew to be wary. Quiet and tense, Malfoy would go about his business until some small event occurred and, although they were often so incidental as to be easily forgotten, they never failed to pivot him over the edge. Harry heard from Ron that he’d hexed a Hufflepuff girl with boils in plain view of everyone for accidentally stepping on his foot and Padma, in tears, mentioned that he had sabotaged her potion because she’d correctly answered a question in class. Her potion had overflowed all over, melting her desk, the stone floor, her partner’s school books, and had burned her legs pretty badly. Potions classes were cancelled for the rest of that afternoon and Padma had been laid up in the Hospital Wing for several days.

Still, Malfoy being a horrid person wasn’t surprising to Harry. However, he’d been dumbfounded to witness Malfoy attacking a member of his own house. Dinner had begun in earnest and the Slytherin table was sparse as it usually was when Dumbledore was around. Desserts had just popped into existence on the tables when one of the fourth year Slytherin boys approached Malfoy’s solitary spot. He spoke calmly, posture straight, and though Harry couldn’t hear what he said, it was evidently enough to cause Malfoy to stand, abandoning his food. His expression betrayed nothing, but in a flash he’d grabbed the boy by the lapels of his robe and shoved him against the table. The thumping sound of his back connecting with the wood and the clamour of a metal plate crashing to the floor drew the attention of the teachers; the room became hushed enough for everyone to hear Malfoy snarl, “And why would _I_ care about what you think, Mudblood lover?”

He’d left quickly after that, but the impression he left behind was undeniable: If he’d been bad before, it was nothing compared to now.

Harry had to wonder where he was off to during all the times he didn’t show up to meals, or skived off classes. He’d spot Malfoy skulking around in random alcoves, reading from a book with no title, or lounging in a hallway, eyes following other students with a calculated gleam.

However, the strangest of changes in Malfoy was this: after five years of targeted antagonism, he seemed to be avoiding Harry altogether.

It was eerie -- the silence that followed Harry’s answers in class, the lack of jeers whenever he was asked to demonstrate something for a teacher. No snide remarks about Quidditch, no snickers whenever he walked by. It would be a relief if it weren’t so disturbing… If Malfoy had given up the taunts, then that certainly meant something was up. And Harry? He intended to find out what it was, despite Malfoy’s efforts to hide it.

He’d even gone so far as to ask Dumbledore about it, when he’d finally gotten to speak to him weeks back.

“Professor?”

The older man’s eyebrows rose as he peered at Harry from behind his spectacles. “Yes, Harry?”

“I don’t suppose you think Malfoy is acting… dodgy, do you?”

Dumbledore threaded his fingers together atop his desk. “I daresay he always has, but there isn’t much he can do from Azkaban.”

Harry frowned. It was long past the time where the senile act worked on him. “You know what I mean.”

His spectacles flashed as he shifted in his seat. “Ah, you are referring to young Draco, I presume?”

“I think he may have finally joined up with Voldemort. He’s always been a snobbish--” he wanted to say ‘arsehole’, but thought better of it in front of the Headmaster, “--prat. But it’s gone beyond.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well-- I mean, you’ve seen it, right? He’s always off to the Hospital Wing for something or other. He can’t be sick _that_ often. Especially with the way he pretended his tiny injury was a mortal wound in third year--!”

“Well, he is only sixteen, Harry. We must allow children to be children, if they wish.”

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “I don’t think ‘childlike’ is the word I would use to describe him; he’s got to be up to something. I can feel it.”

“Harry.” The way his name fluttered out of the old man’s mouth was tender, as if he required soft handling. “I understand that, in light of… all that has transpired, you may feel as if danger lurks in every corner.”

He was talking about Sirius. Bellatrix. Voldemort. The _possession_. Harry’s stomach turned over and he choked out through a throat clenched tight: “Well, yeah. Because it is.”

“These are, indeed, dark times, Harry,” the Headmaster affirmed with a sigh. “But, still, it is no time to jump at shadows. There is no evidence to suggest that Mr. Malfoy is operating for Voldemort’s sinister purposes.”

“What, so you’re just going to let him go off on Muggleborns? How long until he really hurts someone? What more evidence do you need?”

“Professor Snape is charged with Mr. Malfoy’s care. You have no need to worry in that quarter.”

Harry’s lips twisted; he very much doubted Snape’s capacity for ‘care’, but he sensed that this was a topic that Dumbledore had delegated. “Right.”

“Now,” the Headmaster tilted his head downward, surveying Harry, “Is there something else on your mind?”

Plenty. Where to even start? “Professor McGonagall mentioned that I didn’t meet the requirement for Potions. Is there, uhm…?” He faltered. To be honest, it was difficult to parce what he even wanted. Escaping Snape’s tutelage was a blessing in and of itself. However, McGonagall had made it clear: You couldn’t even dream to enter the Auror career without a N.E.W.T. in Potions and... if he couldn’t be an Auror, then what else could he possibly want to be?

Ron had made a habit of reminding him that special exceptions could be made for Harry’s case, considering his… reputation. But Harry would rather eat slugs than barter entry with his popularity.

Dumbledore didn’t appear even remotely concerned. “The matter has been handled,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “Professor Snape has agreed to let you into his N.E.W.T. course.”

“He--” Harry stumbled over his own words. “He _what_?”

“Potter.” Snape’s voice, brimming with impatience, boomed in the periphery, forcing its way into his attention. All at once, Harry’s eyes focused and the Headmaster’s office melted away into a grim palette of black and green, damp and dark. It was no longer weeks prior, it was now, and Harry very hastily gathered that Snape had addressed him once or twice before… if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.

Snape loomed over his desk in a manner all too familiar for the boy. He looked up at the man, replying with a sudden “Sir?”

The professor’s gaze was black, piercing, and his mouth was wound taut in a thin, displeased line. “How many lionfish spines have you put in your potion?”

Right. Too familiar. His stomach clenched; Harry knew what was coming. Although this was a more specialized class, teeming with older years, Harry had a feeling that Snape’s custom of public humiliation was still his go-to method of chastisement. Schooling his expression into something more neutral, Harry responded with a raised chin, “None, sir.”

“And what time is it?”

“After ten, sir.”

Snape seemed to revel in this answer, despite his cutting reply. “Oh? After ten? Is that truly the best you can do?”

At this juncture, he should’ve been able to help it. He was sixteen and he knew mouthing off wouldn’t get him anywhere good. Yet all the same, his retort burst from him, incredulous and unbidden. “Who am I, Father Time?”

The irritation on the professor’s face grew by degrees. He let the silence linger, thick and tense, mingling with the already oppressive atmosphere of the classroom. His reply, when it came, was desert dry. “Hilarious.” Then, he addressed the room at large: “Since most of you have reached the frozen stage, gather around.”

Harry’s gaze darted around as several of the N.E.W.T. students did as they were told. Hermione, who Snape had purposely separated from him on the first day of class and onward, offered Harry a sympathetic frown. Many of the others Harry didn’t know, or didn’t care about, seeing as half the class consisted of Slytherins. By now, they were well used to these combative exchanges between him and Snape, but those from other houses seemed to be a mix of confused and wary.

Once everyone arrived, Snape’s guillotine eyes made a significant swipe down the length of his nose to the work table, where he slid his wand with precise strokes to the very edge of Harry’s cauldron. “ _Unum Vinculum_.”

Harry could only watch in horror as the professor’s spell took effect, his potion losing its previous frothy swirl, beginning to clump and curdle. Within seconds, it had crusted to the bottom of his cauldron, a goopy, cyan monstrosity which bubbled like molasses.

The professor had destroyed his potion. In full view of _everyone_. Before, he’d always been shifty about it by ‘accidentally’ dropping his potion at the end of class, or simply refusing to give him a grade due to ‘sloppy craftsmanship’.

But now… Here he was. Humiliating Harry as always, but without an ounce of shame enough to hide the evidence. He glared down at his ruined potion, anger boiling in his lungs, trying to bubble up as a shout. Every time he thought he had finally reached the pinnacle of Snape’s antagonism, the man managed to find new ways to outdo himself.

He clung to propriety by a thin thread. “How am I supposed to finish my potion now?” Harry uttered between clenched teeth. Then, he tacked on a pejorative, “ _Sir?_ ”

“You won’t,” was Snape’s immediate response. “Clear out your cauldron and start over.”

Start over? _Start over?!_ After what he just did?! “I won’t be able to finish!” Harry seethed.

Snape stared at him for longer than Harry felt comfortable before he raised his voice to the whole class. “Who can inform Mr. Potter how long his potion must simmer before adding the lionfish spines?”

Harry hadn’t seen anyone lift their hands, but Snape’s head made a slight turn, eyes directed toward something over Harry’s shoulder. Seconds later, he heard a voice, quiet, but confident: “Five minutes for the first half. Then the second half after ten more minutes of simmering, sir.”

“Correct. Five points to Slytherin. And, how long has it been since you started your potion?”

Harry dared a glance behind him. He didn’t spot the girl until she answered with a prompt, “Thirty minutes, sir,” but it dawned on him rather swiftly how odd she looked among the throng of Slytherins. Visibly older than the other sixth years, she stood above them with a straightened back, her dark blonde curls sitting demure over her shoulders. Her expression was neutral, wide-set eyes trained on the Professor. She _was_ wearing school robes, but an odd thought struck Harry still: It was rather unfair to be set up against someone who was so clearly a teacher’s aide. Yet, indicated by the points Snape had just given out, she couldn’t have been.

Stranger still, the other Slytherins didn’t seem all that pleased. Even Malfoy, who would always find himself preening at the idea of Slytherin gathering points, had a decidedly sour look on his face.

She caught him staring. He watched as she shifted in place, shoulders rolling back. A little louder, she added: “He should be handling his Valerian petals at this point.”

“Indeed.” Snape’s eyes snapped back to Harry. “In fact, every one of your classmates has minced their Valerian petals, in preparation of their potion’s thaw. Curious, that yours should still be wholly attached to the stem.”

He didn’t bother looking down at his work table, instead letting his gaze unfocus at some middle distance between two Ravenclaws. This wasn’t about instruction, it was about making Harry lose his nerve, making him regret ever _daring_ to enter Snape’s classroom. Dumbledore had said it himself: one outburst, one negative incident, and no amount of string pulling would get him back in this class. Clearly, he had said much the same to Snape himself.

When Harry did not react, Snape continued, voice smooth and deadly, a venom that seeped into his ears, “A month of lessons, and yet you have not retained a syllable, have you? Still you insist on attending this class, when you are _beneath_ your peers.”

The muscles in Harry’s jaw were so tight that it physically hurt him to hold back. His throat burned with words unsaid, his whole body rigid as it resisted an urge (one that sang and pulsed against his frame) to punch Snape in his oily, disgusting face.

“You are wasting precious time, Potter, and valuable resources, by taking up space at this worktable.”

Hermione spoke up, her hand raised at the elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see her expression was resolute, bordering on bleak. “Um, sir, I know that--”

“Ten points from Gryffindor.” Snape’s interruption was curt; he didn’t even deign to look in her direction.

Harry’s bubble of control was getting dangerously close to bursting. The greasy git could say what he wanted to Harry, but going after his friends? He knew he was venturing into perilous territory, but he finally looked Snape dead in the eye. What did it matter if the man could see all the hatred stewing in his mind? Hands clenched against his knees hard enough to make his fingers ache, Harry felt compelled to make this strangled inquiry: “ _Why?_ ”

He couldn’t be certain what he meant by asking it, but it was the question that was weighing most heavily behind his temples, thumping with an incessant rhythm. There was something in Snape’s expression that insinuated that he knew what Harry meant, but still, that haughty smirk crossed his face and he answered, looming over the tabletop: “That’s ten more points from Gryffindor.” A dramatic pause. He was enjoying this. “For speaking out of turn.”

He felt it, then. The fury frothing over. He was ready; his mouth was poised on a biting remark, but something stopped him.

Something he didn’t expect.

That voice again. The Slytherin girl. He was used to Slytherins jeering and goading Snape on, but not this. She only spoke one word, but it was one that was both beseeching and consolatory. “Professor.”

“What?” Snape barked, gaze whipped in her direction.

No points taken for _that_ interruption, Harry couldn’t help but notice.

When Harry looked back at her, her eyes flickered from Snape to the hourglass at the front of the room. “I’d estimate we only have two more minutes to add the petals to our mixtures in the proper manner before they curdle,” she announced, hands clasped behind her back. “I would like to return to my workstation, please.”

Snape straightened, his displeasure plain. He, too, cast his eyes to the hourglass and, perhaps after witnessing something Harry couldn’t quite understand himself, drew in a measured breath. “Very well. Return to your potions, all of you.”

The man’s baleful glower fell briefly on Harry as the students dispersed, but he said nothing more, returning to the front of the room. It was only a miniscule solace; his potion was still destroyed. Though he did make the effort to unwind himself from his chair and begin his brewing anew, it was in vain. His potion did not reach a stable point where he could turn it in for grading and Snape’s virulent stare as he disposed of Harry’s work was something he felt would haunt him for hours more.

Hermione caught the end of his robe moments after he’d exited the classroom to begin his long slog out of the dungeons. “Harry, wait. I’m sorry. I thought I could help, but I suppose I should know by now--” she paused, shaking her head. “Nevermind. I’m really happy you kept your head. But, really, you ought to--”

He shirked away from her at the mention of what he ‘ought’ to do. “Make my excuses to Ron,” he said, abruptly stopping in place.

She deflated, and soon after her voice gasped out in a soft whine. “Harry.”

“ _Not--_ ” That came out way harsher than he intended. Taking a breath, he finished, “... now.”

If there was anything to be said about Hermione, it was that she had the good sense to know when not to push. The corners of her lips upturned in a sad smile and she nodded, only taking a second longer to look him over before departing.

The other students had long since filed past them, leaving Harry as the solitary figure in the corridor. He sighed before rubbing his eyes vigorously in some paltry, half-hearted attempt at clawing them out. Arms whipping back to his sides with a frustrated swing, he looked first one way, toward the stairs that led up, and then the other, where the hall descended further into darkness. He’d never ventured very far into the dungeons, except when he’d followed Malfoy around as one of his cronies in second year.

Before he’d made a conscious decision, he was already walking further down the hall.

His hands were still wound into fists, and it hurt, so he made a concerted effort to flex his fingers. Focusing on his breathing, as he often did while playing Quidditch, helped to calm him somewhat. The air was cooler in the dungeons, but also stagnant, which made the echoes of his footsteps reverberate with a chaotic, thunderous clamor against the walls.

The longer he walked, the more tension began to seep out of his muscles, though his mind did not quiet. His rage followed closely behind him, dragged along by the memory that he continued to revisit -- the dungeon scene with all its trappings; Snape smug and self assured. What he wouldn’t give to spit in the man’s face, to put him down just as he’d done to Harry for so many years. Hermione’s words clanged around in his mind, _I’m really happy you kept your head_ , adding to the cacophony already taking place, and he snorted aloud at the irony of it. He really hadn’t at all.

Harry _had_ told Dumbledore that he was mature enough to handle Potions class without causing trouble. If that didn’t hold true…

“Something else, Harry?” Dumbledore had asked when they last met. “You look troubled, still.”

“You said-- that you made a mistake. Last year. That you should have told me more, instead of less.”

Harry regretted bringing it up when the older man’s expression plummeted into sorrow within an instant. “I have been as open to you as I could reasonably be these last few months, have I not?”

“N-no, of course-- I didn’t mean--” Harry stammered. “I only wanted to say, you can’t really tell me everything because I’m not really… You know, just because I’m the Boy Who Lived doesn’t mean I’m… involved.”

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, his white eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Harry rallied, sitting up a little straighter. “I mean… I want to be part of the Order. Not-- not just as-- you know, a banner to be waved for them, but a real, actual _member_. I’m not a child any longer; you saw it yourself. If there’s something I can contribute, then I want to.”

“Oh, Harry,” the Headmaster gingerly chided him. “You already do.”

A frustrated sigh near exploded from his lungs. “Professor, next year I come of age, and there’s no guarantee I’ll even make it that far. If I’m to survive, I don’t need more school and theory. I need practical experience. I won’t get that at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore’s salmon-colored robe glittered as he leaned forward in his seat. “On that point, I have to disagree. Hogwarts will not teach you how to fight, but it will give you the skills to live.”

“Well, I’m not quitting school,” Harry conceded. “I just think there’s more I could be doing. If things turn out…” _Badly_ , he thought, but didn’t voice. “Then-- I don’t want any regrets.”

The Headmaster had graced him with a worried stare for a while after that. Ultimately, he’d had another meeting after Harry, which interrupted them, but the substance of their conversation lingered around Harry’s mind in the weeks after. He had meant what he said; he knew he was ready for more. Trudging around to classes and chatting with friends as if nothing had changed was… stifling. He felt buried under the weight of this ‘normal life’ act.

Harry closed his eyes with a sigh, pivoting his neck back and forth to stretch out the tense, sore muscles there. How long would Dumbledore make him wait? A few months? A year? Or two? Or, perhaps, until it was altogether too late? The thought made him feel sick.

The promise of _something_ coming had made it possible to plod through Snape’s hellish lessons… through most of his schooling, really, but the longer he was forced the wait, the more his hope waned. It was getting exponentially more difficult to not go barmy from the pressure of it all.

For what it was worth, what he’d received that morning was a good sign, definitely, but it didn’t necessarily mean...

Voices up ahead made his thoughts skitter to a halt, and he slowed his pace to a crawl as well. Though he knew that this was the realm of Slytherins, he hadn’t expected to run into anyone so soon. Impulse had him straining his ears and, although he wasn’t especially interested in doing so, he managed to catch a snippet of the conversation he’d wandered into.

“That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won’t work on me.”

That voice… It was the same girl from class, the one who’d interrupted Snape.

A menacing sneer echoed down the corridor: One that commanded Harry’s attention, ignited his interest anew. “Look, Mudblood, if you think you’re safe just because Snape likes you--”

“Safe?” the word blurted from her, carried on a harsh laugh. “Whatever would make me think that?”

There was a long moment where Harry heard nothing at all, and when he chanced a glance down the corridor, all he saw was Malfoy standing with his shoulders squared. Although Harry couldn’t see his face, he could only imagine the dour countenance he’d witnessed so many times gracing those ignoble features.

“If that’s all,” was the girl’s bored dismissal as she hiked her bag’s strap higher on her shoulder. “I’ll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do.”

There was a snarled reply following her pronouncement, which Harry didn’t catch, and then the noise of someone walking away. The dull clack of heels on stone was approaching fast. A spike of panic struck him; he froze in place, hoping the gloomy corridor would conceal his identity.

The girl walked past him without a word, her blonde hair flowing behind her and catching the faint torchlight. It wasn’t long until she disappeared down the corridor, and moments after that, Harry heard the sound of a second pair of footsteps marching off in the opposite direction. That was a blessing in and of itself; Harry didn’t think he could handle a run-in with Malfoy. Harry steeled himself until he could no longer hear the sound of footsteps, and hurried himself in the direction he came from.

His mind was whirring. As he walked further along, he tried not to look back at the place the pair had once stood and now abandoned. He couldn’t say for certain what any of that was about, but none of it boded well.

His head hurt. Now that he had been sufficiently distracted from his rage, and the pressure of holding in a scream had subsided, Harry felt exhausted. And, truth be told, worried. More than ever, he understood how important it was to protect his friends.

They were all that he had.

 

“Blimey, Harry. I always get lost in the dungeons past Potions,” Ron said, after Harry told both him and Hermione everything that had happened. They were sat by the fire in the common room, Hermione doing homework, and Harry and Ron pretending to do so.

“You’d think after six years of attendance you’d know your way around,” Hermione piped in, rather imperious, her quill flourishing at the end of a sentence.

Ron shot her a look, but seconds later glanced up, offering a hapless shrug in Harry’s direction. “Why’re you in Potions, anyway, Harry? I know Dumbledore pulled a favor and all, but--”

“No buts, really,” Hermione interjected. “It’s because he needs the class, Ron. For Auror training?”

The boy scowled. “All I _meant_ is it’s not really necessary… Best thing to ever happen to you was getting that E. No reason to subject yourself to _that_ torture. It’s not like the Ministry’s going to say no to Harry Potter when he says he wants to become an Auror.”

Cringing, Harry commented, “I want to get in because I earned it, not because I’m some Wizard Saint.”

“I’m just saying,” Ron quietly groused, ducking his head down into his essay.

“I know,” he replied, scratching the back of his head. “It’s just--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron dismissed. “Couldn’t be any worse than dealing with Snape, is all--”

“I think he gets your point,” Hermione sighed as she lifted her head to look at Harry. “Though, Professor Snape did seem to be going out of his way to target you...”

Ron sat up, scoffing. “When _isn’t_ he targeting Harry?”

Well, he certainly had a point there, but… “Pretty sure he doubly has it out for me, now that Dumbledore’s forced him to break his own rules.”

Hermione hesitated before speaking. “Maybe,” she acknowledged. “He seemed to be trying to goad you, though.”

“Again...” Ron interjected, “What else is new?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I mean, he destroyed my potion in front of _everyone_.”

“The Professor is normally a mite more subtle, yes,” Hermione observed, a crease in her brow. “But honestly, Harry, all he did was perform the charm you were meant to do fifteen minutes prior.”

That made his hand pause in the middle of a Snitch he was doodling. “... Really?”

“The fact that you don’t know that is concerning.”

“Well-- I, I knew that there was a charm. I just…” he faltered. “... didn’t, er, look it up.”

There it came, that tone of voice both he and Ron abhorred -- a mother’s brand of disappointment, borne on a sigh that said a great deal more than the single word she uttered: “Harry...”

“I know,” he cut in, irritated. “You don't have to tell me.”

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Hermione retorted, tones even. “But sixth year is different. There’s a stricter need for self guidance. You may have been able to skirt by before, but not doing the assigned readings, or practices, before class -- it can make the difference between passing and failing. It’s like uni, Harry.”

He'd heard all this before… _last year_. Then, it had all been “Harry you'll have to take school work more seriously now that we're in fifth year” and “your O.W.L.s are crucial to determining what your marketable job skills will be”. All true, of course, but-- she just didn't understand.

“Right,” was all he said, eyes averted and frown in place, hoping she would drop it.

“Come on, Hermione, lay off,” Ron charged in to defend him. “He does one thing wrong, and you completely lose your head.”

“I'm only trying to help,” she countered with a huff, noticeably ruffled.

“How's it helpful to prod at him like that? Especially after what happened last--” cutting himself off abruptly, Ron offered Harry an apologetic look.

Hermione threaded her fingers together, eyes downcast, and there was a half minute of lull in their conversation before Harry spoke. “It's okay. You don't have to tiptoe around me. And… I know you're trying to help, Hermione. You tried to do that in class, too. So… thanks. And, erm, sorry.”

Her smile dismissed him; there was no need to apologize. Moments later, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don't suppose Snape was really making that scene as a teaching moment, anyway.” With a tilt of her head, she looked down at her essay again, her voice growing more remote. “Even if he was flaunting the lesson to you.”

“You’re dangerously close to saying he has a point, ‘Mione,” Ron warned.

Although Hermione shot him a glare, she didn’t dignify that accusation with a response. More or less, she was focused on Harry -- though he couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. “Like I said earlier, Professor Snape was definitely going… above and beyond to draw a response from you.”

“Well… There was a condition to my receiving special treatment to get in his class.”

“Let me guess,” Ron balked; though, in seconds, Hermione beat him to the punch.

“So he’s trying to force you to make a problem of yourself?” she questioned, incredulous. “That’s… Maybe you _should_ tell the Headmaster about this.”

“Looks like I’ll get a chance to, when I meet with him tonight.” Harry brandished a small note from his pocket and waved it in front of them.

“What, really? Lemme see,” Ron demanded. Harry passed him the small, wrinkled parchment, and his eyebrows rose. “Bit short, isn't it? And after curfew?”

Hermione proffered a patient hand to Ron and, when he was done hemming and hawing over it, she looked it over as well. “What do you suppose he wants to meet with you for, Harry?”

“I mean, last time I talked to him, I… asked to be in the Order.”

“Aren't you already?” Ron pointed out. “Sort of?”

“Yeah, but-- I'm tired of being _sort of_ a part of everything. I think he might make me a full member.”

Their reaction was a bit underwhelming. Hermione’s lips were pursed, as they usually were when she was thinking, and Ron full-on groaned, saying, “Too bad my mum would box my ears if I even thought about it.”

Harry’s expression was halfway between a smile and a grimace. “I'm not so sure she won't do the same to me, when she finds out.”

“Oh, she definitely will,” he agreed. “I don't envy you in that, but--! A full Order member! How do you suppose they'll swing that?”

Hermione finally spoke. “With some difficulty, I imagine. You're not licensed to Apparate, and I would think that your schooling, and your identity really, would pose some problems.”

He… hadn't really thought about any of that. Feeling a bit put out, Harry replied, “Well, I'm sure Dumbledore's got it sorted. He knows what he's doing.”

“‘Course he does,” Ron concurred, leaning back on the couch. “Though, d’you think Dumbledore will take care of Malfoy if he knows about how the prat’s running his gob?”

He couldn’t hold back a grimace. “Maybe? I mean, he all but told me to drop it the last time I brought him up. Said Snape’s taking care of it.”

“Pff, I’ll bet he is,” was Ron’s derisive rejoinder. “Taking care to make sure that Malfoy becomes a proper little Death Eater. If you ask me, Snape’s probably taught him a thing or two about how to ‘take care’ of Mugg--”

“Ronald!” Hermione reprimanded in a sharp whisper. “You shouldn’t talk about a Professor like that, especially so _loudly_.”

Ron dismissed her with a wave of his arm. “Well, it's _true_ \--”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hermione interjected with more force this time, gazing pointedly in Harry’s direction. “It might be wise to inform the Headmaster, at least, that you witnessed him threatening a student. Who was it again?”

He shrugged in response. “I’ve seen her around classes, but not really er… talked. She’s a... Slytherin, actually.”

“Slytherin?” Ron questioned. “But you said Draco called her… y’know.” Perhaps out of habit, his eyes swooped to Hermione, albeit briefly, as if he wanted to gauge her reaction. Hermione, however, didn’t seem to react at all. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry, though distant, expression pensive.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “Malfoy’s on a rampage, though, so who knows?”

“I don’t know much about her,” Hermione finally said. “I mean, there’s rumors. I don’t know how true they are, though.”

When he spoke, it was with an abashed curiosity. Considering how many untrue stories about him were in relentless circulation, it felt odd to be engaging with hearsay. “Rumors?” Harry murmured, expectant.

“Well,” Hermione shifted in her seat, her discomfort pronounced. “I don’t know anyone from her house, so I can’t say for certain. Padma said she heard from a friend of hers in Ravenclaw about that girl being suspended. I couldn’t say for what reason. Just that she’s been gone for a couple of years.”

Ron let out a long whistle, arms crossing.

“I didn't know you could be suspended at Hogwarts,” Harry admitted.

Ron piped up. “Yeah, it's not exactly common. It's usually only when someone's done something that should get them expelled, but their rich Mummy and Daddy complained to the Board.”

Considering her run in with Malfoy, it didn’t seem likely, but there was no way to be certain. “Well, she is Slytherin. So you never know.”

“If she's Slytherin, then we definitely know,” Ron balked. “Their whole deal is weaseling out of trouble for the shit things they do.”

Harry couldn't argue with that, but yet another scandalized whisper came from Hermione: “ _Ron!_ ”

“Well,” Harry interrupted, in an effort to preemptively distract them from an argument. “I just wondered, since she seemed to come out of nowhere. Curious as to what happened.”

“I mean, it’s hard to know. She apparently left school around the time the Triwizard Tournament was starting, so…” The smile on her face was meek as she offered Harry a hapless shrug.

“So a lot was going on,” Harry finished for her. “It’s strange; what year is she, even?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “It’s difficult to tell.”

“Who cares?” Ron groused, his exhaustion with the conversation clear. “That stuff about Malfoy is way more important.”

“Right,” Harry concurred, acknowledging that they’d veered from the point. “Thing is, if Dumbledore won’t do anything about Malfoy… Then what?”

Hermione shared a significant look with Ron. There was a moment of disquiet between them, a symptom of a lack of clear direction. When she finally addressed Harry, the crestfallen way in which she spoke belied the optimism she tried to convey. “It’s possible that Dumbledore really does have the matter in hand.”

“I just think he’s barmy for trusting Snape at all,” Ron remarked.

Harry couldn’t help but agree. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” he said, gripping the note stashed away in his pocket.

 

The halls of Hogwarts were quiet, except for the sound of Harry’s energetic jogging. Just before curfew, there weren’t many students milling about, but, somewhere along the path to the Headmaster’s office, he’d finally allowed his excitement to surface (a feeling he’d denied himself for the greater portion of the day). After weeks of hearing nothing from Dumbledore, he had been summoned. And that mention of his invisibility cloak? Quite mysterious.

The object in question was stashed away in his school bag, which banged against his thigh with each of his footfalls. He'd hardly looked at it in ages, and it’d been gathering dust at the bottom of his trunk, considering he had been on his best behavior the last month. Running through the halls, he felt more free than he had since school began.

When he arrived at the entrance to the Headmaster’s office, he was breathing hard from sprinting up the stairs. Harry gasped the password he’d used two weeks prior, watching the gryphon statue, eager.

It didn’t budge.

Harry leaned his palms against his knees, craning his neck to stare at the entrance. Blowing out puffs of air, he slowly got his breathing under control. Then, enunciating as clearly as he could, he recited again: “Jubilant Jellies.”

… Nothing.

Perplexed, Harry stood up straight, arms falling against his sides. Considering Dumbledore hadn’t given him another password, he’d assumed… He took the rumpled note from his pocket to examine it.

 

_Harry- My office, ten in the evening._

_Bring your cloak. - A.D._

 

It was ten, almost exactly, and here he was, fully prepared. So… What was he meant to do? Guess the password? Just the thought of that was daunting; wizards had such an absurd amount of different sweets that Harry could spend the rest of his life listing them.

He scuffed his feet at the entrance for several minutes, hands shoved deep in his pockets, with a vain hope that Dumbledore would divine his arrival and let him up. However, nothing. The statue merely stared at him, silent and mocking. Harry grimaced.

Walking right up to the broad wing of the gryphon, Harry sighed. He began to repeatedly check the time with a mumbled _Tempus_ , the incantation uttered with an increasing anxiety as the minutes ticked past.

10:05... 10:07... 10:12...

By the time fifteen minutes had come and gone, and he’d circled the width of the hall twenty times, Harry was properly fed up with waiting, not to mention jittery, considering it was now after hours. The torches nearby had dimmed and sputtered out while he’d been standing there, leaving him with nothing but the dull moonlight that sat prim and unimpressive in the windows nearby.

The castle was old and creaked and groaned often when it settled in at night, but Harry’s ears, more accustomed to illicit forays after hours, were attuned to the sudden presence of footsteps… ones that were approaching, and quickly. The clack of low heels likely signaled Professor Sprout, who tended to be more understanding, but could also be Professor Sinistra, who was decidedly less so.

Harry experienced a moment of panic before he remembered he had his Invisibility Cloak with him. Unstuffing it from his bag with haste, he pulled it over top his head, taking care to hunch to conceal his feet. Instinct had him back into the alcove, beneath the gryphon’s wing, his eyes on sharp watch of the corridor for any movement. The hall fell into an eerie quiet -- peculiarly, he could no longer hear the footsteps -- and then… There! It was too dark to pinpoint any of the passing professor’s defining features, but they appeared to be walking carefully along, wand-light held aloft. As their form receded, Harry blew out a relieved exhale, and refocused himself on the problem of getting into the Headmaster’s office. While his cloak was handy, he’d rather not spend the rest of the night dodging curfew patrols.

It wasn’t like Dumbledore to overlook a detail like this. And, too, since he knew Harry was coming, he should have at least been reminded when Harry failed to appear. So, what was this about? As much as the Daily Prophet liked to paint Dumbledore as a senile old coot, Harry knew that just wasn’t true. Something else was going on.

For one, the whole way this had come about was dodgy. Just this one small note delivered to him at breakfast that very morning. He had no guarantees it had even come from the Headmaster. Harry realized with an unpleasant twist of his insides that the clues that had brought him here were pretty slim. Considering it was just signed “A.D.”, anyone could really have written it, even a student. Seemed a bit odd for Dumbledore to ask him to bring his cloak like that, too. If the note was written by someone else, then that reference was entirely lost, instead becoming a warning about chilly weather.

Mindful not to make a sound, he looked at the note once more, angling it toward the scant moonlight, though he needn’t have bothered -- as he looked down at the words, they started to glow with blue light. Harry’s hand shook from the awkward angle he was holding, but the glow trailed behind, sluggish and smoke-like.

Well. That was…something. Harry waved the paper this way and that, and the glow persisted. The patrolling teacher had long since passed, and Harry chanced stepping back out of the shadow of the statue to examine further. Pulling the cloak off himself, he inspected the note for possible clues. It did seem to be Dumbledore’s handwriting, if Harry’s memory served… Though as he was squinting at the note, he realized-- It wasn’t glowing any longer.

Harry stood still, eyes darting between the paper in one hand, his cloak in the other. He draped the cloak back over his head, raising the note up, and sure enough, the words began to glow again.

With a small, intrigued smile, Harry donned the cloak once more. Even though he’d been a part of this world for five years, magic never ceased to amaze. If anything, this at least confirmed that it was Dumbledore who sent the message; not many people knew his invisibility cloak existed, much less how to attune magic to react to it.

Well, if Dumbledore had taken the time to delineate a hidden magic that reacted to his cloak... That meant there had to be other hidden things as well, right? Perhaps in the note itself? It seemed a good starting place as any and, with a determined gleam in his eye, Harry traced his wand along the edge of the note, muttering: “ _Revelio!_ ”

He’d expected new words to scrawl themselves on his note. Instead, he was caught off guard when, out of the corner of his eye, something else flashed bright blue. When he turned to look, he took a step back. Out of the gryphon statue protruded a ghostly duplicate, whose neck was stretched outward in Harry’s direction. The head of it flailed around disturbingly, its feathered breast heaving with breath and its beak stretching wide as it opened and closed. It massive wings shivered and unfurled, but despite its frenetic movement, not a sound could be heard; no rustle of feathers nor screech from its throat.

Hary brandished his wand at it and, as he lifted it up to chin level, the ethereal gryphon ceased its frantic thrashing, instead staring straight ahead at him. But-- that… couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be looking at him; after all, he was invisible.

Though, perhaps it had seen him don the cloak, and simply knew where he had last been standing. Carefully skimming the bottom of the cloak along the ground, Harry moved off to one side, not taking his eyes off the spectre before him. Strangely, though… It didn’t take its eyes off him either.

His breath caught. The gryphon’s gaze was unblinking and trained directly on him. How… how was it able to see him? There were plenty of times he had hidden from the school ghosts, and none of them had been able to sense him. This was… another thing entirely.

It opened its beak between small, precise movements of its body, performing a soundless articulation. The ghost gryphon tilted its head one way, then the other; its curious entreaty was reminiscent of when Buckbeak used to squawk and chirp at him, asking for food.

“Well,” Harry grumbled, “I don’t have any food.”

The animal pulled back with a proud lift of its head, as if it had understood what he said. Then, it offered a prolonged, muted screech, before looking, expectantly, at Harry.

“You have no voice,” he noted. “Is it… a silencing charm?”

Harry stepped back again as the gryphon suddenly reared up on its haunches, beating its wings once before resuming its previous position.

“Right, er…” he glanced down the hallway. If he lifted the charm, the animal would probably be noisy. At the same time, though, the prospect of allowing it to struggle in silence was… uncomfortable, in the least. Beside that, even if it did cause a ruckus, Harry still had his cloak.

He stepped up closer to the apparition, cautious. When he was a mere few feet away, Harry raised his wand, uttering the words, “ _Finite Incantatem_.”

The gryphon released a test squawk. No sound emerged.

Harry frowned. He was certain he’d done it right; _Finite_ was a fairly routine spell to use in classes where student errors were common. But… A snatch of memory caught at the frayed edges of his thought. When the patrolling professor had passed earlier, directly by his hiding spot, the sound of their footsteps had ceased entirely. Professor Flitwick once mentioned something about silencing charms being placed on an area, instead of a single subject... Could that be it, then? He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what it was called. Hermione would know.

Well, nevermind what Hermione would know.

He looked around, having no idea how to identify where the area actually was, if that was the case. Did he need to know how big it was? Was there a special thing he had to do for area spells? Thus far, all his teachers had pretty well glossed over the subject.

Well, considering it was only a _Finite_ charm and it wouldn’t hurt to try, Harry lifted his wand again, modifying his wand movement to encompass the floor all around him and saying the incantation very clearly:

“ _Finite Incantatem!_ ”

He heard a rustle like leaves, and the click of hard talons on the stone floor. Harry lifted his head and the gryphon looked down at him, expelling a low trill.

His face split into a smile. He had done it! “I can hear you,” he whispered, his elation creeping into his voice.

“And I you,” the gryphon responded, a deep, human voice emanating from its opened beak.

Taken aback, Harry stared. “You… can _talk_?”

“A little,” was its enigmatic reply. “I bear a message from Albus Dumbledore.”

A bit mystified, Harry did not say anything. The gryphon continued: “It is a question. You must answer to gain entry.”

Its voice was serene, but powerful. The resonant tones seemed to reach down into some part of Harry that he couldn’t define. “Let’s have it, then,” he ordered, not sure what to think.

The gryphon lifted itself to a more refined, proud stance, its neck stretched with regal posture. “Which is your greatest regret? Failure to preserve what you love, or inability to avenge what you have lost?”

Of all the things Harry might have been expecting… _that_ was definitely not it. His jubilation of a few moments before vanished. That phrase… _failure to preserve_ … Harry’s thoughts careened to Sirius -- the memory settled with a chill, as it always had, to the back of his neck. His godfather’s daring. The green light. The collapse. The veil.

Most days, he could get by not thinking about it. It was easier to breathe if he didn’t consider what he’d witnessed and the horrifying missteps which had led up to it. Still, now that the floodgates had opened, Harry couldn’t help the tears that sprung into his eyes, nor the swell of fury in his heart. It had been one person, one wand, one spell, which had taken his hopes away. His brighter future, which he had yearned for since as long as he could remember, was eclipsed by the shadow of a single act of murder.

Life was cruel. He knew that well enough already. But even surrounded by the death and destruction she had caused, he hadn’t been able to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. In light of that, his own weakness seemed cruelest of all.

Using a voice hoarse with emotion, Harry growled, “To _avenge_ what I have lost.”

The ethereal gryphon inclined its head, and it seemed to glow brighter before saying, “So be it. You may proceed.”

Harry took in a stabilizing breath. The ghostly vision vanished, leaving only the still, stone version behind. In a moment, the staircase began to spiral upward. He did not waste time; he stood on the uppermost step, impatient to reach the office.

When he threw open the door, Dumbledore was sitting at his desk. The Headmaster appeared as if he was about to say something, but Harry cut him off with an accusatory point of his finger, “What the hell was that just now?!”

“Harry…”

“I _thought_ ,” he spat, embittered, “that you wanted to be more ‘honest and open’ with me. Isn’t that what you said?”

“It is,” the older man wheezed, leaning forward in his chair. “Please… sit down.”

Frustrated, Harry did so, his clenched fists resting on the caps of his knees. Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, his spectacles shining in the light from the fireplace.

“I understand why you may feel upset, Harry. However, you did request to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and therefore you were given the test that all members before you have taken.”

At that, his ire quieted into bewilderment. “A test? How…? I mean, not everyone has an Invisibility Cloak.”

Dumbledore chuckled, despite the tension in the atmosphere. “I would venture to say that _no one_ does.” He cleared his throat. “However, the test is tailored to the applicant.”

“I didn’t know that the Order had an _audition_ ,” was Harry’s grumpy reply. “You’d think I would’ve done enough already to recommend me.”

“Not an audition,” the Headmaster clarified, “but… an analysis.”

He huffed. “What, were you just watching me this whole time?”

“No. Only listening.”

A significant moment of time passed where Harry waited and Dumbledore, as always, watched. “... _Well?_ ”

Dumbledore’s head canted. “Hm?”

“Did I pass, or what?”

“I have not decided.”

Dumbledore’s words smacked him back against his seat with all the brutality of a bludger. Harry’s reply came out as more of a whine than he would’ve liked. “Why?”

“Truthfully?” the Headmaster prompted.

“Yes?” What else? He’d had enough of lies!

“As the leader of the Order,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I would like nothing more than to utilize your talents. You displayed remarkable instinct and ingenuity, qualities which are invaluable to our cause. As an educator, I can take pride in your ability to tackle problems which do not have altogether straightforward solutions.”

The praise was a little… Harry didn’t quite know how to react. The urge to stammer out some bit of gratitude was automatic, but Dumbledore allowed no room to speak.

“However,” Dumbledore sighed. “As someone tasked with your well-being, the decision is not so clear-cut.”

The man stood up from behind his desk to meander around to the front of it. His robes were a muted purple, with shining silver moons scattered throughout. For Dumbledore, it was positively understated.

“It is my opinion that, while you may possess the _skills_ of an Order member, you do not possess the temperament of one.”

Another blow, this one perhaps stinging more considering the delicate way in which it was said. Harry’s jaw clenched as he stared at Dumbledore’s shoulder. “I… did what you said. I haven’t caused any trouble in Potions.”

“That is not what I am referring to,” the Headmaster explained, mild. “Rather, the question that was posed to you regarding your regrets.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “That--!? How can you say that was wrong, when you want me to kill Voldemort?”

“It is not a matter of _what_ you do, but rather _why_ you do it.”

“Because Voldemort’s an evil prick who murders people, that’s why! What other reason do you want?!”

“Harry, calm yourself,” came Dumbledore’s mellow admonishment. “I do not mean to imply that the very purpose for which the Order was created is wrong. You, however, are easily controlled by your emotions, which can only work to your detriment.”

In an instant, Harry deflated. “Then… what you mean is: I failed the test. I’m not… going to be an Order member.”

“Not exactly,” the Headmaster corrected. “As I said, I have yet to decide.”

“You just said yourself I’m not ready,” Harry complained, eyes drifting to the rug.

“True enough.” Dumbledore’s voice was distracted; he seemed to be deep in contemplation, since his next word was spoken more to himself. “Though...”

Noticing the opening, Harry went on the offensive. “Please, sir,” he entreated, looking up at the other man. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just please, let me try.”

Dumbledore sighed, squinting at the fire in the grate before his gaze returned to Harry. “Whatever it takes. I’d counsel you to remember that you said so yourself.”

“I mean it,” Harry declared, firm. “Whatever you ask me to do, I’ll do it.”

“Very well.” The older man’s robes swished as he stepped up to the fireplace mantel, his wrinkled hand grasping a palm full of Floo powder.

“Severus,” he pronounced with clarity, tossing the powder into the grate. “If you’d be so kind as to join me in my office.”


	2. Cleo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their patience as we finished out writing this chapter. We present it to you now, with the hopes that you will enjoy it.
> 
> Thank you so much to Henry and Jacob, our lovely betas. We would be nowhere without you. So much love.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 3: Ingrained

It was strange to be back at Hogwarts.

The sights, the sounds, the _magic_ … All unfamiliar once more in a rare recapturing of her first year, watching the spires of the school emerge over the trees as the boats slid smoothly across the lake. Everything appeared majestic -- fantastical, even -- but, by that same token, almost unreal. It was something unfathomable, distant and untouchable. Dream-like.

Cleo was beginning to second-guess her decision. Of course, there were things she had loved about Hogwarts, but they seemed hazy and indistinct after all this time. The train ride had been hellish ordeal: Sitting alone, each painful mile that separated her from home crowding around her -- looming at her train compartment door, propped up uncomfortably against her sides. Years acclimated at home made it all the more difficult to begin to accept being parted from her family for ten prolonged months. It had only been eight hours by then, and she already felt spent.

When she’d stepped into the castle for the first time in two years, it became very clear that this was no longer a place she recognized.

Or-- whatever. Maybe that was hyperbole. She was prone to it. Her mother had said much the same. _You're acting like we're sending you into exile._

Though, Mum could never really know what it was like at Hogwarts, could she?

She’d never know what it was like to arrive there. The pervasive disquiet. The reserved optimism. The hushed wonder. The skittish camaraderie. The experience was still much the same as it was when she was eleven: The castle stood, a Colossus, large and imposing, its maw stretched wide and welcoming to approaching students, and how every time Cleo passed through those gates, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being swallowed whole.

And now, she didn’t even have the luxury of anyone on the other side of those gates waiting for her. No one to ground herself with, no one to help her reorient, to assist her process. Inadvertently, she’d stumbled into adulthood and all its horrendous trappings -- including the harrowing prospect that, in the end, time itself did not have the courtesy to hold its breath.

It went on without her. Her friends graduated. Events outside her control had changed the dynamics of the school itself.

That’s what she liked about home: She knew where things stood. Hogwarts, as far as she was concerned, was new terrain all over again. One she’d have to traverse on her own.

That evening on the first night, Dumbledore handled her with care, as if one misplaced word would shatter her. To his credit, she felt like it.

He waved his hand over the top of an empty porcelain bowl at the head of his desk and, within seconds, it was teeming with hard, yellow candies. "Sherbet Lemon?" he offered, a knowing gleam poised over the peak of his half-moon spectacles.

It was odd, how comforting that was. The familiarity of it, at least. Not _everything_ had changed.

Cleo shook her head with a sheepish grin. "No, thank you. I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd be this nervous."

He dismissed her with a dainty wave of his hand, that affable half-smile overtaking his features. "Considering your situation? I would say that is perfectly natural, my dear.”

Right. Sure. Though, she couldn’t make herself respond, eyes unfocused and tethered to the salmon colored blur of Dumbledore’s robes.

Leaning forward, the Headmaster allowed his head to dip. "Might I have the pleasure to be the first to welcome you back to Hogwarts?"

She blinked, glancing to his face. It was a good start, she supposed. "Thanks," she acknowledged. "Didn't think I'd be back." Her fingers squeezed her chair's armrests and, after a moment's hesitation, she added with a bit of panic, curtailed with a forced laugh: "... so soon.” Though it was clear (to her at least) that she hadn’t meant it at all.

If he’d noticed her slip up, he didn’t let on. “I imagine the adjustment must seem daunting. But!” At this, Dumbledore’s expression became reassuring. “Do remember that you won’t have to do it alone. We are here to assist you.”

He meant it. Of course he did. Though, all the same, it was only a marginal comfort. Still, this wasn’t the time for personal angst; he was her Headmaster, not her therapist. This meeting was meant to be strictly business. “Right, uhm, you mentioned when we were writing each other that I should, ah--” her body bent to the side as she reached to dig into her bag, “-- bring my leave of absence paperwork, timetable request and O.W.L. results so we could make sure my schedule was appropriate and officially finalize it…”

At this, she produced a manilla folder from her bag, belatedly realizing how ridiculous it looked only after she’d set it on his desk. It was garish among the archaic decor and, embarrassed, she pulled it back on her lap, only to remove the papers and place them where the folder had been before.

“If I’m honest with you, I’m only really concerned with Potions and Herbology,” she put in, a nervous hand combing itself through her hair. “I’m fine with either dropping or being put in non-N.E.W.T. courses for the others.”

The Headmaster scooped up the papers with delicate precision, surveying them with interest. “Your O.W.L. results seem to corroborate your interests, Miss Croft,” he observed, before glancing up at her. “However, if I may make a suggestion… While wandwork does not appear to be your strong suit, I would advise letting Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts remain on your timetable. Your grades would allow you into the professors’ respective N.E.W.T. courses.”

Cleo leaned forward, countenance self-effacing. “Would N.E.W.T. Defense really be necessary? It’s just-- I’m rubbish at dueling, and I can’t even produce an offensive spell--”

He lifted a hand to forestall her. “I think, in light of current events, it is wise to have more knowledge than less. And there may come a time when knowing how to defend yourself will become invaluable.”

Ah. That angle.

Cleo let out a sigh, a soft plop sounding as she fell back in her chair. She considered the Headmaster a bit longer before her head tilted and lips twisted. “Yeah. That display at dinner was certainly… interesting.”

“It is nothing for you to worry yourself about,” he instructed. Easy for him to say. “I am well able to bear the ire of those who disagree with me.”

She wasn’t concerned with _his_ well being, but she knew better than to correct him.

“For now, I am content for you to re-acclimate yourself to Hogwarts, and to do well in your studies. Is that something you think you can do?”

She could do her studies well enough. That was the entire point of coming back. Acclimating, however? “I can certainly do my best,” she promised with a forced chipper affectation, head lifted toward the ceiling. “I’ve got more than myself to think about, at any rate.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Well, Miss Croft, I see no reason not to approve your timetable, though your Head of House will need to take a look at it as well.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” There was a moment of hesitation before she glanced back into her bag, top row of teeth grazing her bottom lip. “Actually, there was one more thing…”

Dumbledore’s gentle attention was wholly focused on her. “Yes?”

Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “You… also mentioned something about monthly visits,” she broached, timid. “... and a way to contact home? Is that, uhm,” she frowned, “still on the table?”

“I have made arrangements for you already,” he reassured her.

She didn’t know she was holding her breath until the air rushed from her, relieved. “Thank you, Headmaster. Really.”

“No, thank _you_ , Miss Croft,” Professor Dumbledore returned. “It is my pleasure to assist bright, promising students such as yourself.”

She didn’t know about that. But... Dumbledore was always exceedingly kind.

Especially to those who didn’t really deserve it.

Even after a month into the school year, Cleo had found no opportunities to speak with her Head of House. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, either. Every attempt hit some sort of wall, with Professor Snape being either impossible to reach, or refusing any attempt at contact forthright. The most she’d received was a brief note the first week, approving her timetable, but there was nothing to indicate that he would meet with her in person. From what she gathered, this had become a problem in general.

She was able to observe this herself when returning to the Slytherin common room at the end of the first night, only to discover Snape notably absent when the Head Boy and Girl were offering the new Slytherins orientation. According to some other students, starting from last year, Snape’s presence had dipped into a gradual wane, first with a cut in office hours and private lessons, then with dropping the frequency of his visits to the common room, until he’d abandoned most of his duties altogether.

Alright -- perhaps not completely. But to students who had grown accustomed to a Head of House who took his position with the utmost severity, the shift was disrupting. Some continued to struggle with the adjustment. 

It didn’t appear to help, either, that when he even _was_ available, the level of professionalism he offered the students of his own House soured into the disposition he reserved for those outside his purview. It wasn’t unfair to say that Professor Snape was deteriorating. 

Well… really, all of Slytherin was beginning to deteriorate. Snape's behavior was a symptom of more momentous things brewing in his House. Everyone saw it, even if they weren't privy to her Head of House's change in mood. From the outside, people could observe Slytherin's shift: The blatant refusal to sit in on meals, the distinct aversion of Dumbledore. Within the belly of the beast, however, more subtle things were at work.

Anyone could say what they desired of Hogwart’s most reviled teacher, but his presence within his own House kept things in line. Without him, things had grown more and more chaotic. Slytherins found a freedom to act without reprimand; to start arguments, assert authority, even begin implementing pressure on _unwanted_ and _undesirable_ students.

When Cleo had arrived, she'd vowed a strict distance from politics. It wasn't a decision made lightly but, in the end, it was an impossible one nonetheless. She could no more distance herself from her identity than she could her own shadow. And, if the Welcoming Feast was anything to go by, tensions were at an all time high.

Somehow, she’d managed to land herself smack in the middle of it. It was just her luck, really, returning at the quintessential rise of a genocidal fascist.

Her inability to stay neutral was, perhaps, what had prompted her to speak up in Potions, despite unfavorable circumstances and at the risk of causing an upheaval in the only class that managed to give her respite.

She’d heard plenty about Professor Snape’s tendency of humiliating Harry Potter, though she’d never had the chance to witness it herself before. From the stories she’d heard, this seemed comparatively mild; it was perfectly understandable that he reprimand anyone who wasn’t careful with this potion. One wrong move would easily turn it corrosive.

Still, it felt like there was something more to this. Snape’s eyes swept across the gathered students. Calculating. In that instant, Cleo surmised -- this was not just a question to see who was paying attention; it was a test of ambition, laid out like bait, just to see who might take it.

If she wanted her Head of House’s attention, then here was a golden opportunity. In the midst of that realization, she raised her hand.

In the same instant, an elbow jabbed her in the side with enough force that threatened to make her yelp. She tossed a quick look to her left; Malfoy’s patrician profile faced forward, arms tucked neat and prim against his sides, but his self-satisfied smirk said wonders.

She was quick to gather herself, catching only the tail end of Snape’s inciting look before answering: “Five minutes for the first half. Then the second half after ten more minutes of simmering, sir.”

Snape appeared… well, it was hard to tell, wasn’t it? His natural mien seemed to be made of disapproval. She’d answered correctly, twice, and had even tacked on the bit about the valerian petals, but he’d hardly reacted, except to award her a measly five points. It all seemed… secondary, once his attention had drawn away to Harry.

_A month of lessons, and yet you have not retained a syllable, have you? Still you insist on attending this class, when you are beneath your peers._

If this was the sort of treatment the kid received, it was a wonder why he was taking the class at all. It didn’t appear as if Snape was all that… dedicated to his education, either. Had the professor not been looking for a passionate student at all, but instead a validator of a cruel line of thought?

The whole idea of “not getting involved with politics” was not to make a scene. Not to make any public statements. And defending Harry Potter? In full view of the likes of Malfoy and Nott? That was about as far as you could get from the objective. But...

“Professor.”

The interruption had a palpable effect. One Hufflepuff and two Gryffindors visibly relaxed, while five Ravenclaws simultaneously craned their necks to look at the front of the room, where the hourglass sat. Clearly, they’d had the same thought as her.

“I’d estimate we only have two more minutes to add the petals to our mixtures in the proper manner before they curdle,” Cleo pointed out. “I would like to return to my workstation, please.”

His frown chilled her. However, he soon ordered everyone back to their potions, and Cleo was allowed to finish out the time in relative peace.

She’d turned in her potion with no bother, but while she was gathering her things at the end of class, Professor Snape’s voice accosted her.

“Miss Croft. A word.”

She froze in place. “Professor?”

He stood just ahead of his desk, arms crossed before him. He watched as the rest of the students filed through the classroom door, expression controlled, but disapproving.

When it was only the two of them left in the room, the professor’s gaze returned to her. “Never do that again.”

“Sir?”

His next statement was carried on a sneer. “ _Undermine_ me.”

Oh. He’d caught on. Well… of course he had. He wasn’t stupid. Moreover, what she’d done in class had been plainly obvious to any person paying half a whit of attention. If her mother were here, she’d talk a great deal about standing her ground. Abiding by her convictions. Maybe Cleo would’ve done so, if she hadn’t needed anything from Snape.

Her head shook, expression feigning confusion. “Sir, I honestly don’t know what--”

His eyes narrowed, his attention direct. “Is that the hint of a lie, I detect?” he commented, voice pitched low. “Because I thought I made it very clear that I am not a man to be fooled.”

“What was of concern to me,” she asserted, facing him squarely, “was to finish my potion. Properly. As is the purpose of this N.E.W.T. level course. I apologize if, to that end, it appeared as if I purposefully attempted to undermine your authority. That wasn’t how I intended it at all.”

The professor hummed a doubtful acknowledgement. Then, taking a different track, he said, “You are aware that it is to your benefit, if Potter gives up this class?”

She squinted. “What Harry Potter does or doesn’t do isn’t a concern of mine,” she told him, firm. “I have no intention of allowing external factors, disruptive or not, to inhibit my performance.”

“Rightly so,” he stated, matching her tone. “Wouldn’t want any wayward attachments clouding your judgment.”

She watched him, mouth slanted in a dangerous half-scowl. _That_ was low. Even for him. “Was my work unsatisfactory, Professor?” she inquired, careful to keep her voice neutral. “I’d be more than receptive to hear any proper, _appropriate_ critiques you may have.”

“Your _work_ was passable,” was his retort. “This is merely a warning, Miss Croft.”

“I’ll endeavor to meet your standards,” she assured him. “Though, perhaps I’d benefit from your consideration?”

“Consideration,” he intoned, the word seeming to leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

God, she was getting tired of talking like this. Allowing the facade to slip, Cleo stepped toward him, more urgent in her speech. “I’ve been asking for _weeks_ to meet with you,” she reminded him.

The man performed an exaggerated glance around the room. “We are meeting now, unless I am mistaken?”

“A _proper_ meeting,” she insisted, morose, “with you actually _acting_ like my Head of House.”

At that, Snape sighed through his nose. “I cannot currently take office hours.”

“I’m in my sixth year and you oversee my academics,” she emphasized, adamant. “You can’t keep ignoring me.”

There was clearly something in her statements which irked him, since his frown twitched further downward. “And, I assume you believe everything to be about _you?_ ”

That struck a nerve. “What do you want from me?” The words burst from her, incredulous, bordering on desperate. “An apology? I’m _sorry_ , okay? I’m _really_ sorry. I made a mistake and I didn’t listen to you. There is nothing I can do to take that back.” Truth be told, she didn’t want to. She never would. “ _That_ is a decision I have to live with, but I want to make the best of it.”

Snape surveyed her expression, mouth set in a grim line. There was an eerie silence in the classroom for the space of several seconds; the lack of bubbling cauldrons lent an off-kilter slant to their encounter. At length, the professor’s gaze broke away from her as he pivoted around to the other side of his desk. “Anything further?” was his dismissive query. “I have a class in ten minutes.”

“Please,” she implored, hands gripping the strap of her bag tight. “Just one meeting. Please, Professor.”

He let out an abrupt sigh, as if he’d been holding it in. “ _Fine_. Nine thirty, my office. I would advise _against_ wasting my time, or you will come to regret it.”

Her head bounced in a flurry of excited nods. “Yes, of course. Thank you, sir!”

Snape waved her away, his attention already elsewhere. But it hardly mattered-- _finally_ , she was going to be able to speak to him.

At that thought, she let out a sigh of relief, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes as she exited the classroom. It was a free period for her now, before lunch. More time to herself than she ever felt comfortable with, really, but she supposed there was nothing wrong with a small study session before Defense in the afternoon.

Maybe not in the Great Hall; she wasn’t feeling very hungry, besides. Perhaps the common room would be empty enough…

It was worth a shot, at any rate. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder before heading in the direction of the common room.

The dungeons had always had a subterranean mystique; the sounds of the rest of the castle weren’t present within the narrow, maze-like halls which made up Slytherin’s domain. In a way, it was a comfort to be able to escape into the silence, to forget the chaos above when things became overwhelming.

Then again, silence also had the tendency to magnify any disturbance.

There were footsteps behind her, synchronized with her own. Slowing her pace, she felt both vindicated and disturbed when the other footfalls matched hers. It was paranoid, but she maneuvered through a series of random, aimless detours in an effort to reassure herself, only to find it doing the opposite. Her pursuer was obstinate, following hot on her trail.

Whoever it was, they weren’t exactly subtle.

She turned to face the seemingly vacant hallway, scowling. “You’re not as good at that as you’d like to believe, you know,” she announced into the emptiness, arms stretched against her sides.

A surly blonde withdrew from one of the alcoves, shoulder in a casual bent against the wall, fingers curled around a book that hung precariously over his left hip. “Of course. Nothing gets past you, right?”

Her eyes rolled. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Every move he made was calculated; from the slight eyebrow raise, to the way his arm elegantly heaved upward to present the cover of the book to his eyes. He smirked. “‘Chemistry and the Living Organism’,” he recited. “Interesting choice.”

Her blood ran cold as one of her hands plunged into her bag, fingers probing to find the familiar, ragged texture of a certain book spine. With dread, she realized it wasn’t there. She hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

He turned the book over on its back, lips curling into a thoughtful frown. “I don’t care to slum it often,” he prefaced before his pale grey eyes beheld her, arrogant. “But I must admit, I found your addition to this quite… fascinating.”

Her stare darted to the book. Swallowing, she lifted an arm, expectant. “Funny. I’d like my book back, please.”

He stood there, watching her. For a good while, they were at an impasse, neither of them budging from where they stood. Then, breaking the tension with a frustrated sigh, Cleo stepped toward him, reaching for the text.

His height was to his advantage. Amusing himself, he lifted the book up and away from her, eyes glimmering with mischief.

Her mouth opened to object, but he was quick to relent, relinquishing the book into her hands with a soft chuckle.

She made quick work of distancing herself from him, back turned, as she opened the front cover of the text. However, when only the title stared back at her, she wheeled around, glowering.

“Give it back.”

His countenance remained neutral. “I’m not sure I understand--”

“Don’t,” she rebuked. “I’m not in the mood to play games. Give it back.”

“Oh,” the boy feigned a gasp, as if he’d just recalled something. “You mean this?” He produced a small square of paper from his robes, clutched between his fore and middle finger. “Forgive me, I didn’t think it meant anything, considering the fact you so carelessly left it behind--”

“I said, I’m not in the mood,” she threatened.

But he continued speaking, as if she hadn’t said anything at all. “-- one could assume that you were flaunting it, even.”

She turned to face him, defiant. “That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won’t work on me.”

There was a sudden shift in his demeanor. The nonchalance faded from him, overtaken by a rage -- perhaps at her insolence, her refusal to follow the script this encounter played out in his mind. “Look, _Mudblood_ , if you think you’re safe just because Snape likes you--”

 _Liked_ her. What a joke.

“Safe?” she snorted with a self-deprecating laugh. “Whatever would make me think that?”

This had the unnerving effect of silencing him. However, soon, the tautness of his frame eased and he took a step forward, pressing the now-crinkled piece of paper against her chest. “Your display in class was bold,” he remarked. “But, I’d tread carefully now, if I were you.”

Her fingers grasped the edges of the paper, wrenching it from his palm with difficulty. However, he dropped his arm without resistance, leaving her room to breathe, to tuck the paper safely into her sleeve. “If that’s all,” she announced, attempting to sound unimpressed. “I’ll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do.”

She’d already begun walking away when Malfoy erupted in a vicious snarl aimed at her back: “You’d be wise to stay away from--”

But whatever bile came on the coattails of that threat couldn’t be heard. She’d proceeded halfway down the hall by then, quick in her pace, but careful not to burst into a full run, as much as her body desperately wished to.

The air burned through her lungs as she finally allowed herself to breathe deep, expression twisted and contorted in distress. She braced the book, and her sleeve, close against her chest, only just barely registering the wisp of brown hair and round glasses that bolted around the corner at the far end of the corridor. Someone watching. Of course. Not like it mattered, anyway. She just wanted to be as far from here as possible.

The turn came fast and, as she released the breath she’d held back, Cleo sprinted away when she could no longer be seen.

A loud bang wrenched Cleo from reverie, and her eyes refocused on the Slytherin common room once more. A few of the rowdier fourth year boys were off in the corner, engaged in a game of Exploding Snap that was so uproarious that it drew the attention of the whole room.

She wasn't used to the atmosphere here anymore; not by a long shot. There was a time when the common room was a place of respite, peaceful as a library, if a little too dark and moody for a proper reading spot. When they still existed, Cleo and her friends would idle away their time in the front parlor, gossiping in between essays, making complaints about class over stupid little board games.

Now, the room belonged to whomever exerted the most force to claim it.

“Idiots,” the third year next to her seethed with a glower so heated that Cleo could only imagine he hoped it would combust the disruptive pair on the opposite end of the room.

The girl across from him, Jodie, turned the page of her textbook with a scowl. When she spoke, it was with a barbed voice, pitched higher above the din. “Not like anyone’s trying to _study_ or anything!”

Cleo crossed her legs with a sigh made inaudible by the ruckus. “It’s my mistake,” she declared. “Should’ve realized the library was a more sensible choice.”

Another girl on the far end of the couch watched the two boys, expression veiled. “Bet you I can hex ‘em from here--”

Cleo tapped her foot against the edge of the table. “Erica,” she called. “Not worth it. Focus.”

Erica turned back around on the couch, disgruntled. “Focus? I can’t even hear myself think!”

“We can still relocate,” Cleo pointed out.

“And give them the satisfaction?” the boy, Leigh, objected with disgust. “Never.”

Right then, another explosion bellowed across the room, causing Jodie to yelp and drop her Potions text.

“Oh _screw_ you guys!” Erica shouted, shoving herself over the back of the couch.

Leigh frowned as he dipped down, picking the dropped textbook from the floor. “You okay, Jodie?”

She took in a breath, teeth gritting. “ _Fine_ ,” she spat. “So _stupid_. If _Snape_ were here--”

“Well, he’s not,” Erica commented as she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the group.

“ _Obviously!_ ” Jodie shot back, irritated.

“Okay,” Cleo cut in, diplomatic. “Would it make you feel better if I went down and got him?”

Leigh scoffed. “Would it even be worth it?”

Jodie’s jaw tightened as she leaned forward to snatch her textbook from his hands. “No, it’d be a waste of time,” she stated, matter of fact. “It would kill an hour, he’d never show up, and I wouldn’t be any closer to understanding Golpalott’s Laws.”

“You’re _still_ on that?” Erica mocked. “It’s really not that hard.”

Leigh rushed to defend Jodie’s honor. “Of course _you_ would say that.”

Cleo’s eyes closed. She wasn’t in the mood to field any argument between thirteen year olds. Especially not amongst the pervasive noise. Better to barge in now. “What has you stuck?”

The girl brushed her hair behind her ear, timid. She clearly didn’t feel comfortable admitting her difficulty. “Well…” Her eyes darted to Erica, as if waiting for another rebuttal, but when the other girl was silent, she continued. “I mean, the first one is no big deal, right? First law, all antidotes contain bezoars. Easy.”

“Right,” Cleo urged, expectant.

“Right,” Jodie echoed, fiddling with a page in her textbook. “But then, the second one? I mean, it doesn’t really… make sense?”

“The fact that all antidotes must contain the poison they treat?” Cleo asked, raising an eyebrow. “What part confuses you?”

“If all antidotes are meant to cure poisoning,” she said, gaining steam, “then wouldn’t having the poison in the antidote sort of… ruin the purpose?”

“Not in this case, no,” Cleo told her. “For the purposes of magical antidotes, the poison becomes a very necessary component.”

“Yeah, _Jodie_ ,” Erica chimed in, a bit snobbish. “How else is the antidote supposed to identify what poison it’s curing?”

Jodie puffed up, eyes narrowing. “Well, _sure_ , I guess--”

“I don’t understand why you lot care to know every little detail,” Leigh droned. “It works because it works, that’s all that matters to me.”

“And _that’s_ why you’ll never get better than an A in Potions,” Erica sneered, her words punctuated by another loud bang from the corner.

“I’m not sure about identifying,” Cleo smoothed over with a sigh. “It works more like...” She paused, a prominent frown overtaking her features.

Leigh barked out a laugh at her reluctance. “See? Even _the tutor_ doesn’t know.”

Cleo shifted in Jodie’s direction, ignoring the slight. “Poisons, venoms -- they’re all unique toxins. No two toxins are exactly alike. They may end with the same result, but often how they… achieve that goal varies, understand?”

The girl crossed her legs, propping her chin on her palm as she considered this. “The goal of killing people, you mean.”

“No need to be morbid,” Erica criticized. “But yeah. _Killing people_.”

That wasn’t important. Though, she supposed she couldn’t fault third years for being so easily distracted. “The point is -- how these toxins cause harm happens in different ways. Certain toxins attack very specific parts of human physiology. Sometimes, you die,” she noted with a significant glance, “and sometimes you don’t, but the toxin’s still causing some kind of harm somewhere. Along that tack, we have to think of the added toxin in the antidote as… the tracker, understand? You take a diluted amount and add it to the substance, and suddenly the antidote itself knows where to look for the poison it treats.”

There was a breakout of cheers and whoops by the Exploding Snap game, followed by three booming clacks in quick succession. Still, Cleo was pleased to see all three brains whirring. Surprisingly, it was Leigh who spoke first. “Sure, but it doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“Efficient?” Cleo asked.

Now that he was in the limelight, he looked as if he regretted speaking at all. “I mean,” he soldiered on, defensive. “If bezoars just cure everything, then what’s the point?”

It wasn’t so much that they worked, but _how_ they worked. But how in the world was she was supposed to explain that based on the limited paradigms the Wizarding World worked within?

At the risk of sounding ridiculous, Cleo took a second to exhale before resting her hands on her knees.“Because that’s just how it works everywhere. Muggle or magical, panaceas -- cure-alls -- can’t exist. One antidote could work for one type of toxin, while being entirely ineffective against another, understand? And bezoars-- well, they don’t work the way you think they do, anyway.”

Erica cut in, snooty. “ _Everyone_ knows that bezoars can cure any poison. That's why the first law says they are in all antidotes!”

“That’s actually not why at all,” Cleo interrupted, even-keeled. “If that were so, antidotes wouldn’t be necessary. There’s a reason why bezoars, by themselves, are only used when a toxin has been _recently_ ingested. And why they’re completely ineffective against toxins that _aren’t_ ingested -- venomous bites, for example.”

“Well, they can still cure anything,” Leigh grumbled.

“If it knows where to find it!” Jodie tacked on, smiling on the advent of her epiphany.

“Yes,” Cleo conceded, if uneasily, before her head canted in thought. “But--”  
  
“But?” Jodie asked, guarded.

“Well--” Shaking her head, Cleo let out a hum. “It’s nothing, really. You won’t really have to know about it until you’re in your N.E.W.T. years.”

For Erica, this would not stand. “I want to know!” she insisted. Even Leigh seemed interested, though not enough to voice curiosity.

“Bezoars,” Cleo began with trepidation. “Well -- they don’t cure anything, really. They work more like…” Activated charcoal, if she was honest. But she didn’t feel like explaining what _that_ was. “Like a sponge.”

Jodie’s head canted. “How come?”

“Bezoars are just a mass of indigestible… stuff, see? What makes them magical is what creature they come out of… since non magical creatures, including humans, can develop them. But their function is to soak up the toxic substance in order to keep it from spreading around the body. And that’s the role they take in antidotes. All a bezoar does in the antidote, really, is enhance the way it counteracts the toxin.”

“Right,” Jodie intoned, albeit distantly, before her expression scrunched up into bewilderment once more. “But-- Okay, so the bezoar enhances the curative properties of the antidote, and the diluted poison tracks the toxin in the body but… What do you even _mean_?”

Cleo pursed her lips. “What do I mean by what?”

“Track it,” Jodie clarified. “Track it to where? Why does it need tracking? Where does it go that it even needs to be tracked? Poison just… does what it does, right?” The girl paused a second, brow furrowing. “Wait, what does poison even _do?_ ”

“I thought we cleared that up already?” Erica jeered. “It kills you. Or hurts you.”

Jodie didn’t even care to spare Erica with a cursory glance when she bit back, “Duh! I get that! But _how?_ ”

Cleo couldn’t help but smile at her curiosity. “As I said, how a toxin harms you varies, because one may target your heart while the other will target your kidneys or liver, or some may even cause complications that severely injure but will result in death if not properly attended to. And that’s not even covering _blended_ poisons that wreak havoc on different parts of the body at once--”

“Golpalott’s _Third_ Law,” Erica put in, preening.

Cleo wore a tired half-smile. “Right. But that’s another complicated subject matter.”

Jodie was chewing on the frills of her quill in thought. “Could you give an example, maybe?”

Okay. That was reasonable enough. “Venomous Tentaculas,” she announced, abrupt, looking between each of the third years. “Do you know how they kill you?”

“Ugh,” Leigh moaned, evidently reliving some painful memory. “Their mouths have great bloody fangs on.”

Even Erica appeared affected, the corners of her mouth turned down. “Professor Sprout mentioned that they could swallow you whole.”

“If you’re the size of a badger, maybe,” Jodie corrected.

“But the venom,” Cleo urged, trying to corral them back to the point. “What do you think it does?”

Silence followed this question. None of them made any outward indication that they didn’t know, but simply watched her expectantly, their lack of chatter a stark contrast.

She looked at each of them in turn, patient, before answering. “So…” she hummed, before sighing. Gods, this was going to be hard. “When you touch, you can feel, right?” She stared out into the room, cringing. That sounded dumber than intended. “Obviously. But there’s a reason for that. If you can imagine, there’s an entire system in your body that processes those sensations through these little… uhm. Well -- they’re called nerves. They’re the reason you can feel pain, pleasure, that you have reflexes…

“So when a Tentacula bites you,” she continued, her own hand clamping down on her wrist for added effect. “The venom targets this system and… pushes it into overdrive. Everything seizes up, like… Like Petrificus,” it felt like the most apropos example; she could probably spend all evening discussing sodium channels and how _they_ worked but… “So it’s not a flaccid paralysis, see? It’s one that forces all your nerves to _constantly_ feel things. And in that paralysis, your other organ systems begin to shut down. Your heart stops beating; your lungs stop breathing. Everything you can think of just -- stops.”

The three looked at one another, expressions grim. Jodie ventured, “That’s… uhm, scary.”

“Yeah,” Erica concurred. “But, uh. What’s the point?”

Cleo tilted her head. “What?”

“What’s… the point. Of knowing all _that_? You use the poison to track it, the bezoar to soak it up, so-- Why know the details?”

Cleo looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “You have to know,” she began, “because otherwise you can’t figure out what to brew in order to combat that toxic effect. Understand? Knowing how the death occurs makes it possible to brew an antidote to prevent it from happening. You know what roots, what seeds, _whatever_ ingredient you have can be put together in order to combat the deadly effects. The bezoar is only one part of many.”

“All the elements serve one purpose...” Jodie said, more to herself than anyone.

Leigh’s curiosity seemed rooted elsewhere, however. “Say, how come Professor Sprout never told us all that?”

“Because it’s all very complicated,” Cleo said. “Something only really Potion Masters bother themselves with.” She paused a moment before scratching her wrist, anxious. “That and… well, some of these things aren't taught in institutions like these.”

“How d’you mean?” he asked.

She felt queasy. Reckless exposure was still a minor risk, even if she didn't exactly threatened by this gaggle of thirteen year olds. “That stuff about nerves,” she explained, reticent. “It’s not something taught here.”

“Yeah, _I’ve_ never heard of that,” Erica announced, as if her intellect was the measure of all others.

“Where did you learn it?” Jodie asked, polite.

“Muggle school,” Cleo answered, careful.

Erica’s eyes about popped out of her head. “You went to Muggle school?!”

She couldn’t say why she laughed, probably the nerves. “Yes. I got home schooled during the summers off Hogwarts.”

Erica scowled. “That sounds awful,” she objected. “Summers are supposed to be for… summer things. Not more _work_.”

“Well,” Cleo breathed, “I like school, so it was fun for me.”

“Whatever flies your broom,” Leigh dismissed with boredom.

“Still,” Jodie cut in, apprehensive. “I still… don’t understand, and that was a lot--”

Cleo frowned. Yeah. It was a lot. Maybe she shouldn’t count on any career as a teacher.

Erica rolled her eyes. “It’s _easy_ ; weren’t you listening?” She leaned forward, pointing a finger down on Jodie’s textbook. It landed nowhere in particular, and seemed to serve only the purpose of underlining her point. “You need the poison in the antidote to track th--”

Another horrific bang reverberated against the walls of the common room. The three of them all performed a synchronized wince, and Erica burst out, “That’s it! I’m throwing that lot straight in the torture room--!”

Leigh put a hand on her shoulder, hindering her. “It’s not worth it!”

“That weird room is scary and gross...” Jodie pointed out. “Besides, Filch is more like to hang _you_ up by your thumbs in there.”

The three third years were thoroughly engrossed in their own drama and, for a second, Cleo felt... forgotten. It had been nice, really, to feel a part of something again. To feel… interesting. To feel connected. But in the abrupt upheaval of an explosion, it had all dissipated. She could sense it: The air about them shuddering to a close, locking her out. She was no longer a presence, nothing tangible; an incidental thought thrown by the wayside.

 _No_. That was too harsh. What in the world had she expected? She had only known these kids for a few weeks. She most certainly wasn’t their friend. What she _should’ve_ been was grateful for any contact at all (that’s why she’d started tutoring, wasn’t it?). Feeling “forgotten” was the consequence of a choice she’d made herself.

 _She_ fucked up. _She_ decided to leave. _She_ stopped talking to everyone. _She_ thought it’d be a good idea to come back to this fucking school, and only _after_ all her friends had graduated, only _after_ she couldn’t procrastinate anymore, and--

“Uhm, excuse me?”

Cleo’s head wheeled around, yanked by the little voice over her shoulder. What she found was an unassuming first year, stood straight, hands locked behind her back. Her hair was a collective of brown, wiry curlicues, a few falling in front of her eyes. Although appearing shy, her gaze was resolute, holding Cleo’s with a forced confidence.

“Hello,” Cleo greeted with a small smile.

“Hi,” the girl returned. “Can I talk to you?”

Cleo’s head tilted. “Sure? What do you need?”

The girl looked at the other three students with a frown. “Not here,” she insisted.

Cleo’s stare fluttered, nonplussed, between the girl and the study group. When it settled on her again, Cleo leaned inward, lowering her voice. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“It’s important,” the girl supplied, unhelpful.

Cleo looked up again, this time to survey the occupants of the common room. She spoke as she did so. “Just a warning: I’m not a prefect, so if you need--”

“I’m not stupid. I _know_ you’re not!” the girl exclaimed in a harsh whisper, impatient. “It’s still important!”

Cleo winced. Okay. It was a little mean of her to just… assume. And it was that thread of guilt that led her to stand, without question, to follow the kid, shortly after excusing herself from the group. The girl took her hand with urgency, fingers clasped taut against hers, leading her out of the portrait that guarded the common room and through a seemingly random series of dungeon corridors. Cleo didn’t know for how long, but they walked in silence for a while. When they stopped, the girl took a step away only to look down both ways as if she were on guard, before placing herself near Cleo again.

For the first year, it must have seemed like an unplottable and untrackable area of the dungeon they’d sequestered themselves in. For Cleo, who’d long since memorized the layout of the dungeons, it wasn’t random at all, and she was able to identify the area they occupied with ease (they were near the bathrooms; one corridor down from an empty supply closet).

But it was adorable, in a way. The drama of it. The attempt at subterfuge.

It enthralled the kid’s voice when she spoke. “I heard what you said,” she announced with gravity.

Cleo blinked. “What part?”

The girl’s expression skewed itself, incredulous. How piteous it must have been for her to work with someone so clueless, Cleo mused. “The _Muggle_ part,” she emphasized, knowingly.

Cleo _did_ try to play along, for what it was worth. “Oh, _that_ part,” she’d enthused as if she’d caught on. However, a beat of a pause passed and Cleo was at a loss. Puzzled, she crossed her arms. “W--Wait, what about it?”

The first year let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not supposed to talk about it?” her voice lilted, like she was delivering a reminder.

“I’m not?” Cleo inquired, kneeling down to the girl’s height.

The way the girl looked at her said a great deal over how she didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture, but she didn’t object. Instead, she pressed her hands on her hips, looking Cleo over. “No… We’re not supposed to talk about it at all.”

“We?”

The girl let out an impatient exhale. “I’m like you?”

“Like me?-- Oh,” Cleo canted her head. “You’re Muggleborn?”

The word worked as an invoked spell and a panic shimmered over the girl’s irises before she shushed Cleo with a firm hand pressed up against her face.

“Not so loud!”

Cleo’s eyes darted to the warm palm drawn over her mouth. She knew this routine; it was comforting in a way difficult to describe, but the script remained the same. She didn’t wrench the child’s hand away, instead she nodded with an apologetic flair and awaited for the girl to catch her breath before trusting in Cleo’s silence enough to drop her arm.

Cleo was careful to speak on a lower register that time. “I didn’t know we weren’t allowed to talk about it.”

Grateful, the girl took on the same tone of voice. “It’s not a school rule,” she clarified. “But… don’t you remember what Snape told you?”

What Snape told her?

The confusion must have been obvious, since the girl continued, words flowing from her as if they’d jog a memory Cleo misplaced. “Your first night in Hogwarts? You had to go talk to him in his office?”

She couldn’t remember that at all, since it never happened. This was new.

There was no use in denying it, however. It could only serve to confuse the girl further. Instead, Cleo’s hands propped themselves on her thighs as she anchored herself back up to her full height. “Your orientation, right?”

“Sorta.”

“What’d he tell you?”

“That it’s important I keep my family to myself,” the girl explained. “That I’m not to talk about home at all, or really let anyone know I’m Muggleborn. It’s safer that way.”

Safer. That was one way of framing it. Professor Snape’s motives were apparent, but… What could be said? She’d witnessed it herself in the short month she’d been here: The targeted bullying, the political tensions between housemates. It was just, for Cleo, she’d never made pretense for wanting to hide who she was, anyway.

It wasn’t as if it were going to stop the other sixth and seventh years from freezing her out: They were going to, regardless of how out and proud she was about her heritage.

However, she didn’t see the purpose in arguing. As much as Cleo wanted to rant about how wrong that felt, to tell a child never to speak of where she came from... laying her critiques at this girl’s feet was equally inappropriate.

“That seems sad,” Cleo finally remarked, crestfallen.

The girl’s eyes jumped to the ceiling as she shrugged. “A little.”

“What about friends?”

The girl squinted at her. “What about them?”

“What about making them?” she questioned. “What if they want to know about you? What did he tell you to do? Lie?”

“Well,” the first year faltered. “No… Just…. Never tell the full truth.”

So, nowhere could be safe, then. That didn’t feel like anything an eleven year old should have to concern herself with… much less deal with the implication that she should feel shame. That _any_ of them should feel shame.

“I see,” Cleo replied after some deliberation.

“So… I wanted to look out for you,” the girl admitted. “Since you didn’t seem to remember.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

The girl shook her head. “We have to look out for each other,” she stressed. “That’s what my mum taught me, anyway.”

A hint of smile ghosted over Cleo’s lips. “What’s your name?”

The girl’s back straightened. “Thea.”

“Thea,” Cleo repeated, testing the name. “That’s pretty. Short for anything?”

Thea’s nose scrunched up with displeasure. “Nothing good. I hate my name. It’s stupid.”

At that, Cleo softly chuckled. “Couldn’t be that bad.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No?” she mused, a glint in her eye as her hands pushed themselves into her pockets. After a moment, her shoulders lifted into a conceding shrug. “You’re probably right...”

 

“ _Clytemnestra_ _Croft!_ ” With her full name being shouted so unexpectedly, Cleo careened into the present. Her eyes focused to the vastness of the Great Hall’s ceiling, displaying a beautiful, pale blue, cloudless sky. A mimicry of outside, where she’d rather be, instead of here, in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The subject alone made it difficult for her not to completely dissociate. 

But, that was not a smart thing to do in Professor Tenenbaum’s presence.

“ _Fifty_ points from _Slytherin_ for letting your classmate _die!_ ” the professor hollered at her, irate. In a haze of embarrassment, Cleo couldn’t help but wonder how such a frail-looking woman could shout her ear off from across the expanse of the Great Hall.

Professor Tenenbaum was like that, she’d discovered. Full of appearances that deceived.

It was difficult to say just _who_ would fill in the position after the fiasco of the previous year’s professor (a wretched old crone named Dolores Umbridge, Cleo was tersely informed), but the woman they found sitting at the front of the class at the very beginning of the year… She wasn’t what anyone imagined.

Bridgette Tenenbaum. A former Curse Breaker (now cursed, as she found fit to point out with a self-deprecating laugh) and strikingly beautiful woman with cropped hair, snarking grin, vivacious eyes and missing appendages.

Her left leg and ear, to be specific. 

She was emphatic to stress that it wasn’t the leg that kept her immobile. It _used_ to have a prosthetic, one she didn’t find point to wear anymore, on account of the wheelchair: A purple and turquoise metallic monstrosity that seemed too immense to accommodate her waif-like size.

And this didn’t even begin to cover the strangeness of the man that saw fit to hover nearby, introduced as the professor’s “partner in crime.” With brilliant blue plumage sprouting from his neck and shoulders, he hailed the students with a jaunty wave, insisting they just call him “Ren”, and spent the rest of the afternoon peppering Professor Tenenbaum’s first lecture with the occasional wisecrack. From then on, every day they came to class, his features were vastly different; one day, his skin would be bright green and scaly, another day he would be sporting an elephant snout instead of an ear, and on another he would have hooves for hands.

Suffice it to say, those who hadn’t thought Dumbledore had gone off the deep end began to think so now.

As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum was not only perhaps one of the most qualified teachers to grace the Defense the Dark Arts position (not that there had been stiff competition), but the most rigorous and strenuous one to ever enter Hogwarts. Period. This was a boon to students who enjoyed the subject and wanted more practical coursework; hell on earth for students like Cleo who loathed the boot camp-esque setting.

Unfortunately, it didn’t look like she would be getting a reprieve any time soon.

The professor’s well manicured fingers hovered over the sprockets of her wheelchair, prompting it to propel her forward in a graceful glide across the Great Hall of its own volition. The exercise had come to a halt; much to Cleo’s dismay, the students fell into a deafening quiet, punctuated by the harsh sound of frenetic, breathless shrieking coming from her partner. All eyes darted between her and the approaching professor.

Cleo’s gaze skittered to the floor and the classmate she’d ‘killed’ -- Neville Longbottom, writhing on the floor, a sharp staccato of laughter puncturing his lungs as he attempted to wriggle away from the relentless assault of… air. Nothing.

“S-S-Stop!” he wheezed in between rasping breaths, arms braced against something that appeared to be angling for his face. “Th-That t-tickles--!”

“Well?” the professor shouted, halfway across the room. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cleo’s shoulders tensed, the corners of her lips anchored down into a frown. “He seems fine to me…”

“What was that?” the professor barked, heaving her good ear in Cleo’s direction.

Cleo’s head shook. “I said I’m sorry!” she corrected, raising her voice.

The professor arrived with aplomb, wheelchair clacking back to the ground with a clang that made Cleo wince. Her presence was overwhelming at times, and even now Cleo could feel the woman towering over her, even though it was _she_ who was glancing down to meet the professor’s piercing gaze.

“Sorry doesn’t mean anything,” Professor Tenenbaum informed her. “Again, what do you have to say for yourself, Croft?”

She was at a loss. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” the woman questioned before she surveyed Neville’s hysterics, her wand precariously threaded between her fore and ring fingers. With a small twist, the hilt returned to her palm and she made a swift slice in the air with the point. With it, Neville’s body relaxed, the onslaught of _whatever_ having ceased its attack on him.

“Let’s start,” Professor Tenenbaum intoned, twirling her wand back in between her fingers before shooting a glare up at Cleo, “with what happened?”

Cleo faltered and couldn’t find herself doing anything other than repeating the phrase the professor seemed to loathe: “I don’t know.”

The woman leaned back in her seat, arms crossed and tense like braided twigs as she regarded the girl with scrutiny. Cleo shuddered, unable to shake the feeling of being picked apart by unseen hands.

“That’s the fifth time this month that you’ve disrupted my class,” she pointed out, every syllable jagged and cutting, enough to make Cleo flinch. “I’m at a loss to understand _why_. Am I boring you?”

Her entire body went rigid; she could feel every stare burning into her, hear every word thought by the students in the audience to this display. Her heart balled into a fist and she couldn’t manage to do anything other than shake her head in response.

“Then am I unclear?” the professor inquired. “Have my instructions been so convoluted that they’re impossible for you to follow?”

“No,” Cleo murmured, the word withering halfway out her mouth.

“I certainly hope it isn’t sabotage?” the woman probed, her eyes traveling to the crest on Cleo’s robe in a swoop that was impossible for her to miss. It was a simple downward plummet but, to Cleo, every movement was exaggerated, pointed, purposeful.

Cleo’s hand jerked, impulsive, to cover the crest on her robes, her voice a soft, mortified squeak: “No!” 

“Then help me understand _why_ ,” Professor Tenenbaum goaded, “you seem to be struggling with what’s essentially a rudimentary exercise?”

Cleo’s head turned to catch the line of students watching the exchange. The back of her neck went aflame, lungs strangling themselves. She couldn’t find her answer; it had managed to escape her, scattering across the floor, lost underfoot in the seemingly endless crowd.

Professor Tenenbaum seemed to have misplaced her patience, too. “Right,” she hissed, jerking her entire body into a pivot, her wheelchair adjusting to face the rest of the class. “Who here can show Miss Croft the proper way to fend off invisible creatures, since she’s forgotten? Mr. Potter?”

He didn’t appear to shrink from being the center of attention. On the contrary, Potter looked perfectly comfortable. For a second, she felt a fleeting optimism -- perhaps he’d remember that morning in Potions, take pity on her.

“Well-- I mean, there’s all sorts of things you could do, but I guess the easiest way is a good Stunning charm,” he remarked, assuming a dueling stance before seeming to remember: “Oh, er, if you’ve called them off, then maybe…?”

Professor Tenenbaum nodded. Her wand took a tumble over her knuckles before she made yet another precise, silent slice in the air.

The patter of invisible feet filled the hall once more, and Potter, eyes keen, waited a few seconds before he snapped his wand to the side. Without a word, a blast of red light burst from his wand, flashing on the faces of those present as it whizzed by. The spell obviously connected with something, as the bolt hadn’t fizzled out, instead latching itself onto something unseen.

Surprisingly, even after Potter had clearly done what she asked, the professor didn’t call off the onslaught. For several minutes, it was just him against numerous invisible entities, and only the sound of spells crackling out of his wand could be heard.

Then, nothing. He had to have cast ten or twelve stunning spells, and he stood in the aftermath, untouched and victorious.

The professor was impressed. She’d even begun a hearty round of applause, her grin so wide that it threatened to tear her face in twain. “ _And_ nonverbally!” she mentioned with a guffaw, “I’d say that’s worth about fifty points to Gryffindor, no?”

A few whoops rippled through the crowd as a red haired boy clapped Potter on the back.

The merriment didn’t last long, however. It steeped into a halt when Professor Tenenbaum looked to Cleo again, expression souring. The energy of the room deadened. Her stomach dropped.

“Now you,” the professor instructed, her wand poised in her palm like a threat.

The response was automatic. The panic settled, heavy, into her limbs -- she could already foretell the humiliation, the utter failure. Without meaning to, it sprang into her words, sudden and unwelcome: “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” the woman addressed her, irritation seeming to flare at Cleo’s defiance. “Or won’t?”

Cleo leaned forward, lowering her voice to a beseeching whisper. “Please. Can we talk about this privately? _Please_.”

Professor Tenenbaum didn’t appear willing to negotiate. “Miss Croft, if you have no intention to participate in today’s lesson, you’re free to leave.”

“That’s not it,” the reply rushed from her, breathless, her frame wound tight. “I’m not trying to be defiant, I swear. You have to understand -- I _really_ can’t do it.”

The professor examined her, posture relaxing. Maybe, just maybe, Cleo thought, she was relenting. She was ready to let things be.

“You can’t,” she repeated with disbelief, her head drifting toward the crowd of students once more. “Very well.”

A sense of ease shivered through her. Her fingers loosened themselves from her palms. For a moment, she watched as the professor turned her wheelchair away, awash in the relief of simply being _left alone_. Her eyes closed. She was safe.

Unfortunately, it was in the nature of a moment to be fleeting.

She couldn’t say how it happened, nor block the scene in a way that made sense. She could remember the shrill ring of the professor’s voice, blaring a word that felt distant and yet, at the same time, too familiar. When her eyes fluttered open, it could only register the color red. An attack. Instinct drove everything else; the sudden rush in her blood, the snapping raise of her arm, the hoarse cry of _Protego_ fumbling out of her mouth.

In the span of a second, it all happened, each action blundering into one another in rapid succession until there was nothing but the loud rasp of Cleo’s breathing and the steady drumbeat of her heart pounding in her ears.

The next thing she saw was Professor Tenenbaum’s smug grin as she stared back at the girl, arm held aloft, as if she’d proved something.

“So,” the woman underlined, “you can’t?”

Cleo unraveled.

A terrible sting scraped across her eyelids as she stumbled back, livid. The rush of adrenaline was arresting, but so was the anger. Perhaps even more so. She stared at the woman, aghast, before lurching forward, as if she were barely able to hold herself from tackling her to the floor.

Her shout tore itself through her throat, callow and raw: “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, you _horrid bitch?!_ ”

A hush fell over the crowd, heavier than the ones before. It was so stark she could hear her own scream echoing in the far corners of the Great Hall, severe and disturbing enough to sober her.

Her eyes widened. She never wanted to take something back more.

But everything around her was already deteriorating. Professor Tenenbaum’s baleful glower seared into her.

“Wait,” Cleo gasped. “I-- I didn’t--”

“Get. Out,” the professor uttered, tone dangerously low.

She could hear the dull hum of whispers collected around her, judgmental. She wanted to sick up. “I’m _so_ sorry,” she wailed, taking a step forward. “That was so wrong of me. I--”

“I said, get out!” the professor cried, her hands balled into fists. “Or do you require incentive to actually _do as you’re told?_ ”

Cleo hesitated.

Apparently, this was enough to throw the woman over the edge. “ _Five hundred_ points from Slytherin!” the professor roared, “ _And_ a month of detention! Is that enough for you, Croft?!”

Frightened, Cleo stumbled backwards, barely able to avoid a few Ravenclaws as she grabbed her bag and bolted toward the doors.

She hadn’t expected to collide into anything solid; the brunt of the crash jolted her into a soft yelp, before she looked up to catch a glimpse of a slitted eye gazing down at her.

“Ay, what’s the rush?” the voice of Ren crooned above her, jovial as always. Then, after a beat, he tilted his head, the skin of his face performing an iridescent shimmer and tone grown more concerned. “Cleo? You alright?”

“Sorry,” she huffed, abashed, as she she skirted away from him. “ _So_ sorry--”

“What’s--?”

She shook her head, eyes clenching shut as she pushed past him. “I have to go.”

Rushing down the corridor, she could hear the faint sound of his voice calling after her. But soon enough, it was drowned out by the roar of her hastened footsteps swarming about her, accusing, taunting.

It ended up being too much and, in the midst of her hurried meandering, she crashed around one corner, tumbling to the ground. Her bag emptied itself, haphazard, across the floor, with her following close behind, her shoulder catching itself painfully against the wall.

She wanted so bad to scream.

She managed to muffle a loud cry against the inside of her forearm long enough to force the urge to ebb. Her cheeks felt hot, head thick and heavy, burdened by the intensity of… everything.

“You’re _losing_ it,” she reprimanded, gritting her teeth. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

She pushed herself off the wall, wrenching herself toward her belongings, gathering them up with rough, careless hands. “An adult,” she scoffed, heated, to herself. “What adult acts like that? _Conducts_ themselves like that?”

The mish-mashed way she stuffed her belongings into her bag had it threatening to overflow again; this frustrated her more than one could ever conceive and with another yelp, she threw the thing across the hall, watching as it smashed against the stones with a horribly satisfying _smack_.

She was no more delicate with herself. She threw her back against the wall, drawing her legs up to her chest. Pressing her kneecaps against her eyes, she clenched her jaw, riding out another wave of anger until it subsided into something more bearable.

“Breathe,” she muttered against her skirt through gritted teeth, digging her heels into the floor. “Breathe, you idiot.”

Eventually, she took command of her lungs. It took shallow, but practiced, breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out, until the pressure bled from her sinew, until strain faded from her, gradual.

When she looked up again, her vision was dark and splotchy. She was exhausted. More than she had been in an entire month.

All over nothing, too. Over something so incidental. Over something she had full control over. She couldn’t let herself become that indignant again; to degrade herself in such an undignified way. How was she supposed to survive, otherwise? How was she supposed to evade discord within her own House if she couldn’t avoid making such a spectacle of herself?

She couldn’t fail. She couldn’t give up again. So much depended on her success.

Today, so far, had been an unmitigated disaster. But… there was still time left to salvage it. One last chance. With a weighty silence draped about her, Cleo crept to her bag, determined.

_Pull yourself together._

She’d skipped dinner, spending most of the evening curled up behind the greenhouses, reading her chemistry text. It was well worn, but there was some solace in treading across covered ground, revisiting a childhood memory: she could almost hear her father reading the words aloud while she sat at their dining table, the scratch of her pencil close by her ear.

The breeze which billowed her robes around her felt nostalgic, too. It was a pity that not many subjects at Hogwarts were taught outdoors; her mother had dubbed their backyard her “classroom” many years before. In the end, her mother ended up teaching her very little, but the afternoons spent studying on the back porch as she watched her mother toil away in the garden remained a comforting, cherished memory.

God, she missed them.

In the very least, thinking of them grounded her. Made her feel more human; more herself. A bittersweet method, but an effective one nonetheless. By the time the sun dove under and away from the view of the crystalline greenhouse windows, she was centered. She didn’t know how ready she was for tonight, but at least she’d meet the challenge with a level head.

When it was too dark to make out the diagrams on the page of her textbook, she closed it with a sigh and rose to her feet, staring at the castle as it hunched over in the darkness, ready for bed.

She crossed the grounds, rubbing away the grass stains on her skirt. Along the way, she met no one. A blessing, but an unsurprising one; even the most notorious dawdlers wouldn’t hang around the Entrance Hall two and a half hours after supper stopped being served.

When Cleo arrived at the door to Professor Snape’s office, she took a second to breathe before rapping her knuckles against the door, awaiting the requisite sound of his voice before entering. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and she strode across the room, meeting Snape’s gaze with a small smile.

“Professor,” she greeted.

His attention broke away from her as he used his wand to guide a line of hovering bottles into place on his shelf. Then, with a decisive tap, the spell ended, causing them to settle, clacking against the wood in unison.

Stowing his wand away, Snape turned to face her fully. “Cutting it close, are we, Miss Croft?”

Her head made a swift turn toward one of the walls, only realizing much too late that there wouldn’t be a clock there. She ducked away, too embarrassed to cast a _Tempus_ to rectify the matter. “I apologize if I’m late.”

A raised eyebrow was his only acknowledgement of her odd behavior. “Sit,” he said, settling into his own chair with measured precision.

It wasn’t until she was here, in front of him, that the terror truly set in. It took her a few moments to finally acquiesce, but when she did so, it was with quiet, deliberate movements.

His desk was pristine, bare except for a neat stack of what appeared to be essays, but even so Snape cleared them off the tabletop, using magic to roll them all together and stow them in a drawer with a mere flourish of a wrist. Then, his attention fell directly on Cleo. “As your Head of House, I find myself _deeply_ interested in your other classes,” he provoked, calculated. Merciless.

The worst part? She couldn’t defend herself.

“I’m sorry.”

“I simply cannot fathom what reason you might have to be,” Snape sneered.

She was too flayed open to really care to be offended by his tone; the wounds were too fresh, too raw. There was no reason to fight, because she had nothing to win. Nothing to gain. “How I acted was horrible and not only reflects poorly upon myself, but on you as well. I understand that. I take full responsibility. I am so, so sorry, Professor. There’s no excuse.”

His eyebrows raised and, for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a more neutral tone, he inquired, “Five hundred and fifty points. What in Merlin’s name could you have possibly done to lose _that many_?”

Cleo’s eyes slammed shut. “I severely disrespected Professor Tenenbaum in front of her students,” she confessed.

A derisive snort erupted from him. “She does not seem a woman easily offended,” he pointed out.

“Well, I managed to do it,” she assured him, leaning forward as she buried her head into her hands.

Snape leaned back in his seat, pensive. “And you?” he prompted. “What do you plan to do about it?”

Her words wriggled out from between her fingers, muffled. “Serve my detentions without complaint, keep my head down, control myself.”

“Sensible, if a bit lacking in creativity.”

The chuckle that drew from her was short lived, bit halfway through with a snort as she leaned back in her seat, eyes cast to the ceiling. “It’s my worst subject; I don’t have a lot of room to maneuver. I’m sure she’d be smart enough to catch on, anyway.”

“True enough; although, she was always possessed of the subtlety of a Gryffindor, despite her House,” was his dry response.

Gods, she was so tired. What did that even mean, to possess the subtlety of a “Gryffindor”? What importance did that hold outside of this stupid, insular boarding school? “I just want to be honest,” she admitted, her exhaustion permeating her voice, “No double talking, no manipulation. I made a mistake. I want to take care of it, straight. That’s all.”

“And how do you expect to earn back those five hundred and fifty points, if all you intend to do is ‘keep your head down’?” He volleyed her own words back at her, acerbic.

Points? That’s what he cared about? An arbitrary fucking point count? “Forgive me if I’m more concerned with atoning for the fact I acted in a ghastly manner to another human being.”

“Forgive _me_ ,” he sniped, “for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions did not simply affect _you_ , but rather the entirety of your House.”

Yeah. She got it. She was the fucking _worst_. Thanks for the--  
  
“What do _you_ suggest I do then, professor?” she asked, breathy, cutting through her unproductive line of thought.

For a moment, he assessed her, dark eyes searching. For what, she couldn’t say. Then, when he spoke, he was confident. “Assuming that your inquiry can be taken in good faith,” he prefaced with a significant glance, “what I _suggest_ is to do more than what is asked of you, and to accomplish it with superior grace, to rectify not only poor opinions about you, but Slytherin as a whole.”

Her reaction was knee-jerk. “Slytherin as a whole?” she repeated, appalled.

“Yes,” was his frank retort, tone a warning, “unless, of course, you would like everyone who bears that crest on their robes to become a target.”

“Are you _seriously_ suggesting that Slytherin’s current reputation hinges on what I did _today_ ,” she argued, heated, “instead of like, what, the public demonstrations against Dumbledore? The common room being in constant disarray? Malfoy throwing his weight around as if he--”

“The point, Miss Croft, is not that you have negatively swayed public opinion, but that you have confirmed it,” Snape cut her off. “The general opinion of this House has always been abysmal, but yours is not an isolated case. With each instance, others begin to believe that there is nothing redeemable within Slytherin.”

So the Purebloods were allowed to misbehave, purposefully so, and she, the wretched little Mudblood, had _no_ room whatsoever for even the smallest fuck-ups, because the entire stupid, bloody fucking _House_ depended that she never bloody acted out of turn, or --

“So, no pressure,” she seethed, disaffected, hands white knuckling the cushion of her seat.

He offered her a non-committal hum before saying, “As Head of House, the safety of my students has always been my utmost priority.”

“Of course,” she grumbled, albeit with veiled cynicism, “that’s what you assured Thea, right?”

“I can only assume you are referring to Theadora Waters,” Snape inferred, “in which case, I told her what I told all first years.”

Just, for Muggleborns, with the tacked on notice that if they knew what was good for them, they’d keep quiet. At that juncture, she had to begin questioning _who_ he was protecting.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she announced, looking away from him.

“Then what is it that you want?” was his timely reply.

Right. She had come here to accomplish something. Not that she felt like it anymore -- and, honestly, it’s not like _that_ mattered, either. How she “felt” about it was immaterial. She didn’t really have a choice, did she? Short of giving up, right now, and going home.

“I wanted,” she began, words unburdening themselves from her, “to ask you to be my advisor.”

He hardly reacted, expression bland as he replied with a solicitous, “That so?”

“Believe it or not, yes.”

“And why is it you think I should agree to that?”

It was difficult to sell herself when she was beginning to wonder what in the world she had to offer. “I’ve gotten an O in your class every year since I started at Hogwarts,” Cleo said, mustering up the courage to look him in the eye. “I’ve always gone above and beyond for your projects, your essays, your tests -- I’ve shown exorbitant interest and enthusiasm in class. You even told me, in my fifth year, that I showed promise.”

The man before her threaded his fingers together in front of him, posture imposing. “There are plenty of students at this school with exceptional talents,” he mentioned. “And yet, I haven’t taken a single advisory role for a decade.”

 _Probably because no one would be masochistic enough to ask you_.

Not like that said much about her character, either. “I presume it’s because you’ve yet to be suitably impressed.”

“None have proved they are willing to put in suitable _effort_ ,” he corrected, brows drawn low over his eyes.

“Professor,” she addressed him, correcting her posture -- business-like, utterly prim. “I wouldn’t have bothered with returning to school if I had no intention of making an _effort_. I told you. I have something I need to do. I’ll do whatever it takes to achieve it.”

His gaze was penetrating. “If that is the case, then present to me your proposal.”

There would be just one more hang up, wouldn’t there? Par for the course. “I didn’t think--”

“-- _That_ much is apparent,” he snapped. “You aren’t the first to waltz in here with delusions of grandeur, Miss Croft.”

“I’m _not_ deluding myself,” she objected, her tone taking on a sharp edge. “If you’d just give me the chance to--”

“To what?” he slashed through her sentence. “Waste _more_ of my time? Because if so, you’ve done an admirable job already.”

She was ready. Despite how demoralized she felt, how exhausted she was, how _done_ she was with _everything_ , she was ready to challenge him -- to lay it out, right there. She stood, her chair groaning in resistance at the force of it, hands hovering over the front of her stomach. “Professor, there’s--”

A phantom drifted through the room, right then. A familiar voice, beckoning from the fireplace. “Severus,” it called. “If you’d be so kind as to join me in my office.”

It winded her. All at once her confidence -- the drive, the steam, the determination -- fled from her. There she stood, a wilted little thing, hovering over her professor’s desk, her words withering in her throat. 

Snape, gaze still trained on her, answered with an annoyed deference, “Of course, Headmaster.”

He rose shortly after, his towering height dwarfing her in more ways than he could even begin to fathom, dismissing her with a flicker of his eyes to the door behind her.

And as he drew away to plunge himself into the Floo, her fingers wrung the hem of her shirt. A flash of fire lapped on the edge of her periphery, and her words finally spilled out into the darkness that followed after:  
  
“-- something… I have to show you...”


	3. Ingrained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Thank you so much for your patience. Chapter three has finally arrived! We're so sorry for the wait. Merry has work and I have school, so our time writing has to be allotted to when we have a free moment together. But we are always writing, we promise! We hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to our lovely betas.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 4: Mutual

“My apologies for the earlier-than-promised summons,” Dumbledore said, once Snape had emerged from the emerald flames. The moment he arrived, Harry’s anger bubbled to the surface; having to be in the same room with the greasy arsehole twice in one day was asking a bit much. He still couldn’t shake the look on the man’s face as he’d dropped Harry’s potion into the bin.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to just throw _Snape_ in there, where he belonged.

Still, after talking to his friends, he felt better able to endure the discomfort… even if he did sense a sort of impending doom. Considering that things were looking up for him, this was a great opportunity for Harry to prove to Dumbledore that there was nothing at all wrong with his temperament.

The Headmaster’s arm swept across the space between him and Snape, gesturing to an armchair for the man to take.

He didn’t. Instead, a displeased frown overtook his face. “There is, I presume, a worthy reason for your intrusion?” he drawled. To Harry, it sounded suspiciously like a threat.

However, Dumbledore merely chuckled, eyebrows raised. “Presumably,” was his jolly reply. “As we discussed,” here there was a significant pause, “I will need you tonight to ensure that the safe houses’ wardings are properly intact.”

Snape’s gaze slid over to Harry, lingering with calculated precision. The fact someone else was in the room clearly wasn’t lost on him. Harry, for his part, observed them both in silence, doing his level best to appear as serene as possible.

Snape squared his shoulders, the back of his dark robe trailing on the rug. “I see.”

“And,” the Headmaster began, the word careful, gaze resolute behind his spectacles, “Mr. Potter will be joining you.”

He… _what?!_ In an instant, Harry forgot all pretense and, unable to keep quiet any longer, he sprang up from his seat. “Sir--!”

Within the same moment, Snape spoke. “Albus--”

The prompt glare aimed in his direction by Snape did nothing to deter Harry’s outrage, though it did remind him he ought to be on his best behavior. “Professor Dumbledore,” he was proud to hear the words leave him in a measured, orderly fashion, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Loathe as I am to admit it, Potter is correct,” Snape tacked on the end of Harry’s sentence.

“Now, now…” With two gently raised hands, Dumbledore quieted them both. “Unless my memory fails me, I seem to recall _someone_ saying to me that he would do _anything_ to be an Order member.”

Harry let out a whoosh of breath, winded from the injustice of having his words thrown back at him. In light of that, he lost most of his composure, saying, “I didn’t think you would send me off with… _him!_ ”

Dumbledore leveled him with a patient look. “Harry, being an Order member is all about having to work as a team with others.”

“Something tells me _Snape_ isn’t much of a team player,” Harry spouted, bitter, thoughts going to last year when he’d practically begged the man for help.

Fat lot of good that had done.

“ _Professor_ Snape, Harry,” the Headmaster stressed, his voice going stern for the first time.

The man himself cut in at that juncture, voice smooth. “Clearly, Albus, Mr. Potter harbors a strong personal resentment toward my person, to a level where the very thought of my presence is abhorrent.” Then, in quieter, more sinister tones, he concluded, “His acrimonious predilections do nothing to recommend him; surely his utter _lack_ of experience alone should disqualify him from assignment.”

“I am well aware of Harry’s mindset, Severus,” Dumbledore admonished, eyebrows raising.

Harry looked between the two of them, frustrated confusion plastered on his face. He had no idea what _acrimonious predilections_ meant, but he definitely understood _disqualify_. “Look, I have more motivation than anyone to do this thing right,” he insisted, determined. “I just want to help. So... If that means…”

Ugh, he couldn’t even bring himself to properly say it. “I-I have to contribute. I can’t just tag along while someone else does all the work.”

“A reasonable request,” the Headmaster remarked, looking to Snape for confirmation.

He didn’t seem all that pleased. “Albus,” Snape barked, tone impatient. Then, as if remembering himself, he took in a bracing breath, appearing to reign in his irritation. “I must insist that we speak privately.”

The older man adjusted his glasses on his nose, gaze settling on Harry momentarily. “If you’ll excuse us a moment,” he requested, using a hand to perform a calm gesture toward the door.

Harry hesitated, frown twitching downward, but obeyed, going back the way he’d come and pulling the door shut. For a brief moment, he was tempted to leave it open a crack, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He was _so close_ to finally being able to make a meaningful contribution to the war effort. To muck it up now with something so small and stupid would be the height of immaturity.

So, he waited, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The staircase automatically rose up to the landing where Harry stood, and he simply stared at it, hoping he wouldn’t be forced to travel down it so soon after he’d arrived.

After only a scant few minutes had passed, the door clicked open once more. Surprised at how quick that was, Harry dithered, cautiously peeking his head around the door frame. What greeted him was a silent, tense atmosphere. Snape was standing in the same place, facing away and still as stone, hands clenched at his sides, while Dumbledore himself had settled at his desk once more.

“Please, Harry, have a seat.” This was spoken very quietly, but it carried across the space like a shout.

It was incredibly odd; the mood in the room had completely turned in another direction in the few minutes since he left it. The subdued climate made Harry feel like he ought to tiptoe, even though that was ridiculous. Sighing, he forced himself to walk into the room normally, occupying the same chair he had left behind earlier.

Once he had settled, Dumbledore spoke, straightforward, “Professor Snape has agreed to accompany you on your missions on one condition, and one only.”

Harry heaved a breath, disapproving. “Sir? Why, er--” How to say this in a way that didn’t make him seem like he was whinging…? “Why... _Professor_ Snape? Exactly? Aren’t there, you know,” he glanced to the side at Snape, who was facing the fireplace and ignoring them altogether, “other people who are available?”

“Truth be told, Harry… no,” the Headmaster replied.

When no more information was forthcoming, he prompted, “Not even Remus…?”

At that, Snape turned briefly, sneering, “Your precious werewolf is _preoccupied_.”

Dumbledore spared Snape only the barest of glances, before refocusing on Harry. “He is currently away, and therefore cannot be called upon to assist you at this moment.”

“Oh.” Harry deflated.

“More importantly,” the man continued, mild. “As someone who has worked in a team which includes Professor Snape, I can attest that his capabilities in that quarter are quite sufficient.” At that pointed remark, the Headmaster looked over his spectacles at Harry.

“Right,” he said, though it was a touch resentful.

“However, the only way I can allow you to go anywhere at all, is if you agree to the terms laid out,” Dumbledore reminded him.

“Yeah, I get it. I can only go with Sn-- _Professor_ Snape, and I’ve got to be on my best behavior.” _What else is new?_ he thought, sarcastic.

“And,” he added, “it is imperative that you do exactly as Professor Snape instructs you, without question.”

Harry felt as if there was an upheaval in his chest, such was his repulsion. “Great-- so, I have to obey anything he says like some kind of House Elf.”

The Headmaster leaned forward, hands laid flat on the tabletop. “Harry, this is very serious. This condition is set by me, and if it is broken I will not be able to allow you to continue performing missions. Do you understand?”

His brows furrowed. “Yes, sir.”

Holding Harry’s stare for a short moment, Dumbledore nodded. “If you wish to be part of this organization, Harry, you must be able to work with those you find unpleasant. Whatever your misgivings may be, I have said before that Professor Snape has my full confidence, and that is as true now as it ever has been.”

Harry suppressed a full-on grimace, though he couldn’t hide his frown. Still, when he said nothing, the Headmaster questioned, “Do you agree to the terms?”

Looking to the floor, his eyes scanned the edge of the rug listlessly. He certainly didn’t _want_ to agree; he would love nothing more than to refuse, to leave with dignity intact. No one was likely to stop him. But… if he wanted to be in the Order, he didn’t have much choice, did he?

“I agree to the terms,” Harry intoned, fingers tightening reflexively in his palms.

The older man offered him a small smile. “Good… Good,” he said, almost absent-minded. “Then, let us not waste the evening. The sooner you accomplish your task, the more rest you will be able to catch.”

Harry felt as if all his energy returned to him at once, buzzing just beneath his skin, making him feel jittery. “Right now? What-- What do you want me to do?”

“I mentioned earlier,” Dumbledore remarked, “that I need some maintenance to be performed on the warding of some safehouse locations.”

“Uh… I’ve never done any warding before,” Harry admitted.

“Of course not,” was his good-humored reply. “Which is why you will not be going alone.”

Oh, yeah. “That seems…” Harry couldn’t find a more nice-sounding word than ‘boring’.

As if the Headmaster had divined his thoughts anyway, he said, “It will do you well to know about our safe places, should you ever find yourself in need of them.”

Right, okay, he had a point. “Alright, where exactly are we going?”

Dumbledore’s long beard swished against his robe as he turned his head toward the other man in the room. “That, I will leave to Professor Snape.”

A swift glance was all Harry needed to know that the man still hadn’t moved from his spot. His silence was eerie, to the point that Harry actually shivered at the sight of him. “How, er, are we going to, you know, get where we’re going?” he asked, Hermione’s words coming back to him.

“You have everything you need already,” Professor Dumbledore insisted, gesturing toward Snape.

It was that pronouncement that made Harry realize that he was just delaying the inevitable. He’d been ready to go a while ago, but hadn’t wanted to face the reality of actually _going somewhere_ with Snape, of all people. The two of them, alone... Harry entirely powerless to return on his own… It was a fate worse than detention, in which he could be reasonably certain that Snape wouldn’t have full reign to finish him off for good. The thought of being forced to depend on the man for anything made him feel ill.

In light of his thoughts, he stammered, “Is--is there, ah…?”

“Harry,” Dumbledore gently admonished. “Go.”

“Right,” Harry cleared his throat; it suddenly felt bone dry. “Er… yeah. You’re right.”

Gingerly, he raised himself from his seat, feeling as if the distance between the chair and Snape was an insurmountable slog. Still, he managed it, walking right up to the man.

“Let’s go, I guess,” was his awkward opening line.

For a moment, there was no reply. Then, Snape’s shoulders dropped about an inch, a detail that Harry only noticed due to his unpleasant proximity. The man pivoted on the spot, facing Harry with an expression that he could only describe as _vexed._

“Let’s,” the professor spat, that single syllable carrying the weight of his full ire. A whirl of his robe signalled his movement, and he grabbed the Floo powder so hastily that half of his handful spilled onto the rug.

“Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” he barked, throwing the powder with a disdainful flick. In a moment, he was gone.

All at once, the tightness in Harry’s throat seemed to strengthen, choking him. _Grimmauld Place._  He should have expected it -- in hindsight, it was obvious, wasn’t it? -- but to hear that name spewed, hateful, from Snape’s mouth was a blow he wasn’t prepared for. Beseeching, he turned back to Dumbledore... What he was searching for in the man’s face, he couldn’t say.

But, for the briefest of moments, he thought he spotted a profound sadness in the older man’s expression. Then, it was gone, replaced by a small, caring smile. The Headmaster urged him, “Off you go, Harry.”

The Floo powder felt coarse and gritty. It scraped at the skin beneath his fingernails, clinging to the sweat in his palms. Harry closed his eyes. The words he had to say were clogged in his esophagus; the longer he held them in, the more likely he was to suffocate. Seconds ticked by, and a dribble of the green powder escaped his fist.

His arm felt very hot, raised above the fire. This small shock of pain, this idle fear… It was nothing against the swirling inferno buried within his mind. _Sirius_. The name crawled into his ears at the slightest provocation. His hand trembled before him, unsteady.

 _No._  Harry shook his head, the action minute. _Pull yourself together._

The Order needed him; he couldn’t give in to his own stupid fears. He couldn’t afford any hangups. It was only a house. It was only a structure. It was only... a place.

Gathering conviction, his eyes shot open.

“ _Grimmauld Place_.”

The drawing room appeared before his eyes just as the last time he’d seen it. Dark. Dingy. Familiar. Harry remembered clearing doxies out of the faded, moth-eaten curtains last year, though it felt like ages had passed since then.

Oddly, the grim figure of Snape matched the decor.

On Harry’s arrival, the man saw fit to sneer, “So glad you could make it, considering your  _busy_ schedule.”

Harry pressed his lips together, saying nothing as he dusted off his jumper. Snape’s barbs seemed to possess far less sting after watching Dumbledore take them in stride.

The windows were dark, the room shrouded with heavy shadow from the small fire in the grate. Out of habit, Harry used his wand to turn on the dusty lamps in the room, brightening the environs with dim, yellow light. Unfortunately, it meant he was better able to see Snape’s curled lip and disapproving glare.

“This isn’t Hogwarts, Potter,” he snapped. “Underage magic is still very much _illegal_.”

For a moment, a spike of fear punctured his calm bubble, and he gripped his wand tightly as if it were about to be ripped from his hand. Then, he frowned as he gathered his faculties, countering with, “No one ever told us not to use magic last summer.”

Snape leveled a baleful look in Harry’s direction. “As fascinating as I find your utter lack of knowledge about unplottable warding, there will be no such protections where we are going.”

“Well,” Harry huffed, “how am I supposed to know that? You haven’t said anything about what we’re doing!”

The older man appeared to gather confidence from Harry’s disgruntled tone, shifting his weight and lifting his chin. “On second thought, disregard my earlier protests... It would be my absolute pleasure to witness your permanent expulsion from Hogwarts.” The thin smile that split his face was nasty to the core. “So, do as you please, Potter. That is what you do anyway, isn’t it?”

Harry’s jaw was beginning to ache from his heroic efforts to keep it shut. He made a show of stuffing his wand away in his pocket, aiming a firm glare at the floor afterward. There was a moment of silence; perhaps Snape had expected him to react more spectacularly, but Harry was doing his damndest not to give him the satisfaction.

When he finally lifted his eyes, it was due to a light tapping noise. Snape had moved across the room without Harry noticing, and the man pivoted toward the window, examining the wall trimmings with his wand held up close. “What are you doing?” he asked without thinking.

The professor didn’t even spare him a glance. “My job,” was his curt reply.

Harry frowned, irritated. Is this honestly what he was going to have to deal with all night? Not for the first time, he wondered how on Earth Dumbledore could vouch for this man. It was beginning to seem more and more like the Headmaster was off his block.

Reluctantly looking about, it seemed clear to Harry that the months he’d spent toiling with his friends to freshen up the house had gone to waste. The drawing room felt a mixture of depressing and nostalgic. Time and circumstance had distorted it; every memory of what was, what could have been, had baked themselves into the walls. Cobwebs littered every surface, and a layer of dust had accumulated atop the derelict piano such that it seemed clear no one had come in this room for a while. The macabre tapestry of the Black family, complete with peeling wallpaper and savage burn marks, seemed a more sinister spectre than it had before; Harry’s eyes kept lingering on the gaping hole where his godfather’s portrait should have been.

He shook his head, drawing in a breath and rubbing his eyes with a quick, fierce motion. The lull in antagonism with Snape made room for undesirable thoughts. He didn’t particularly _want_ to talk, but at least it was better than thinking.

Harry squared his stance, focusing on Snape, who was off in the corner doing who knew what. “You ever intend to tell me what you’re up to?”

There was such a lack of reaction, that Harry couldn’t be certain the man had even heard him. Considering Snape could normally hear a potion that wasn’t boiling at the correct temperature from a hundred paces, Harry quashed his urge to repeat himself.

Instead, he snorted, “I thought Dumbledore said you were actually _good_ at working in a team. Be a shame for him to hear I ended up doing exactly nothing on this trip.”

At that, the professor’s wand arm froze, his shrewd gaze travelling slowly across the room before it landed on Harry. When he spoke, his tone was chilling, causing the hairs on Harry’s arms to stand on end. “Be a shame for you to suffer the consequences of your ill-conceived, arrogant threats.”

That wasn’t-- Well, okay, maybe it was a threat. But what other leverage did he have? “Look, I want to be an Order member, you want to get this over with, so give me something to _do_ ,” Harry demanded. “Or at least tell me what is happening!”

Snape’s black eyes seemed even darker in the dusky ambience. “ _No._ ”

“So, what?” he shot back. “Just going to sabotage this whole thing? Way to prove how _loyal_ you are to Dumbledore.”

In a flash, the man was directly in front of him, wand pressed against his chest. On instinct, Harry had grabbed his own wand, but he was dismayed to find his reaction too slow: a burst of red light divested him of it, the _thunk_ of solid wood clattering against the leg of the sofa.

A thread of terror wrapped itself around Harry, then; Snape’s imposing stature had never encompassed him with such stark dismay as it did in that moment. It was painfully clear that he and the professor were not on the same level, despite whatever praises Dumbledore may have had for Harry fifteen minutes prior.

Still, he did not back down, his defiant stare unwavering as Snape spoke.

“I have nothing at all to prove,” the man sneered. “You, however? Your fame and fortune may have gotten you this far, but soon you will be entering the _real_ world. And you, _Boy Who Lived_ , will find it is not nearly as forgiving as the Headmaster.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the familiar contempt for his title. “I know that,” he spat, resolute. “And if you actually cared about preparing me for it half as much as you belittled me with it, _Professor_ \--” that single word was infused with every bit of his frustration and scorn, “--then you would _teach me what you’re doing!_ ”

For a moment, Snape said nothing, his stare boring into Harry. Tense, he readied for an attack. Considering how close they were, Harry supposed he could make a bid to grab the man’s wand from him. Though... they seemed matched in reflexes. The manoeuver would be risky, but he didn’t have many options, outside of performing techniques he’d never done before.

Snape moved, and the muscles in Harry’s legs twitched, ready to lunge forward. However, there was no need; the professor’s form retreated, slow and purposeful as he pocketed his wand. Without any further ado, he returned to his previous position near the wall.

Harry stared at the man’s back, letting out a short breath, but he didn’t relax, watching Snape’s movements with wary energy. His body was still flooded with adrenaline, itching for an outlet. In the end, while keeping an eye on Snape, he regained his wand in one swift motion, cracking his elbow with the force of his snappy gesture.

Left alone with his thoughts once more, Harry ruminated on how futile this entire situation was. Of course Snape didn’t want to help him; it was _Snape_ , after all. Who did he think he was dealing with? The man collected a salary for bullying children! This was only confirmation of what he already knew: Whatever Dumbledore had to say about it, Snape was every bit like any Death Eater Harry had ever met -- callous, cruel, and self-serving.

Casting his eyes about, the drawing room seemed more ominous than ever. This place had only ever been a haven due to the people surrounding him, hadn’t it? It had only felt welcoming when Mrs. Weasley’s voice had called to him from the kitchen, or when he’d seen Hermione curled up by the fire with a book, or when the twins had roped him and Ron into mischief with hushed whispers, or when…

Or when Sirius had been here to crack jokes about how “dreary” everything in the house was, when Sirius had challenged him to a pie eating contest and he’d won by a landslide, when Sirius had prowled about with manic energy looking for something fun to do, when Sirius had included him in _anything_ and _everything…_

When he’d been…

“Around this structure are wards that are four centuries old,” Snape’s voice interrupted his thoughts, the sound so sudden that Harry almost thought he’d imagined it.

Blinking, Harry refocused on the room. The other man still had his back turned and all appeared unchanged, but, though he couldn’t say how he knew, there seemed a disturbance in the air. Snape’s words hung between them, almost tangible.

Cautious, he ventured, “I didn’t know spells could last that long.”

“‘Spells’, by _your_ limited understanding, are not made to last at all,” was Snape’s crisp reply. Harry frowned at the confirmation of two things: that the professor had indeed spoken first, and that he was no less frosty than he had been two minutes ago.

“Yeah, fine. Then what makes a _not-spell_ last for hundreds of years?” Harry asked, acerbic.

Snape straightened, turning away from the wall. “No one knows,” he replied. “We can determine that the ward’s effects are in tact, but cannot tell how they are working.”

“So…” Harry trailed off, glancing around at the windows. “The wards are… in the wall?”

Snape directed a baleful glare at him and Harry braced himself for an insult, which came swiftly. “Why look, it’s another _astute_ observation from the Boy Who Lived himself,” he sneered, sarcastic. “ _No_ , it is not _in the wall_.”

“Well--! You’ve been standing around that same patch of wallpaper for ages!” he argued, his gesture in that direction swooping through the air with all the force of a slap.

The professor performed a disdainful sniff. “The reaction of the ward is more easily tested at its outskirts,” he countered, tapping his wand against the wall in question. “Hence the ideal choice being to check any facade with a window.”

“And I’m meant to just _divine_ that out of thin air?” Harry grumbled, irritated.

“You are _meant_ to not jump to wild assumptions, when your knowledge is sorely lacking,” Snape countered, his robe swirling around his legs as he prowled to the opposite side of the room.

“It’s not--” Ugh, continuing on this line was bound to get him nowhere. “Whatever. So, are the wards working or not?”

Snape stopped walking, his boots sounding off with one final clack. “They are currently functional.”

“... Well? We done here, then?”

“It would seem so.”

 _Could you possibly be more unhelpful?_ “I suppose we have other places to go, yeah?”

For a prolonged moment, the other man was silent, though his stare was direct. “Our next destination is quite some distance,” the man pointed out.

With growing discomfort, Harry realized exactly what Snape was going to say. “I don't suppose you have a portkey… do you?”

If possible, Snape's expression grew even more bland. “Considering safehouses are supposed to be _safe_ … No, we do not keep magical items around that will whisk anyone directly there.”

 _Okay_ , he didn't have to be a prick about it. “Then, uh. Brooms?”

Clearly impatient with this line of thought, Snape glared at him. “The most feasible method is Apparition. Unless you were planning to waste all night on transportation.”

“There's not… another Floo connection…?” Harry tried, desperate.

“Did I not just say that these locations must remain safe?” the man snapped. “Surely even an imbecile could manage to hold on to _that_ miniscule portion of information?”

Harry erupted, “Well I'm not exactly happy about having to Apparate!”

Snape's reply was smooth, full of disdain. “How piteous it must be for you to have to endure not getting your way.”

He grit his teeth. What he wouldn't give to just be able to hex the horrible man. Maybe a good old Bat Bogey like Ginny was fond of…

Still, Harry’s mind hearkened back to that moment not long past, the terrifying sound of his wand falling to the ground… It was enough to sober him.

“Let's just get it over with,” he grumbled, glaring toward the window.

A pause. Then: “I cannot Side-Along Apparate you from across the room.”

Right. With a grimace, Harry shuffled his way toward the man. His threats still hung fresh in Harry's mind, though Snape’s stance was neutral enough.

Once he was within arm’s reach, Snape stiffly proffered a forearm. Harry was reluctant, but… he said he would do what it takes to be an Order member. He wasn’t going to take it back now.

Tense and braced for an unpleasant trip, Harry wrapped his fingers around Snape’s arm.

In an instant, Harry felt pressurized, as if he were being pulled through the eye of a needle, or being dragged through a crack in a cave wall… All around his body he felt a squeezing, _scraping_ sensation, such that his skin felt raw and ravaged, while the rest of him reeled at his inability to breathe. The terrible pain of it was crushing, crushing, _crushing…_

And it stopped. Harry heaved out a deep breath, like he was surfacing from a long stint underwater, and his stomach instantly spasmed.

Before he could properly register the action, he had fallen on all fours, clutching his knees as he vomited onto the ground. His ears were ringing something awful, and a blistering headache bloomed on either side of his skull. Harry endured several minutes of agony, retching on what appeared to be... concrete? That was about all he registered of his surroundings.

When he finally had gathered enough of his faculties to right himself, leaning back to sit on his heels, Snape was several paces away. Blinking, Harry observed his movements. The professor was a still, dark silhouette, framed by a cone of foggy light, the edges of his robe fluttering as they were picked up and tossed by the wind. Harry watched as the man crossed his arms, gazing about the environs.

Then, without warning, Snape’s head snapped in his direction, his shadowy eye trained in a unsympathetic squint.

“Your constitution is abysmal.”

Still feeling incredibly ill, Harry said the first thing on his mind. “Maybe you’re just rubbish at Apparating.”

Snape’s face was in shadow, making the man even harder to read than usual. There was a long enough pause after his previous statement for Harry to feel compelled to fill the air again. “I’ve-- ugh, never... done that before.”

“ _That_ much is painfully obvious,” the professor growled. Harry cringed in anticipation as the man pointed his wand in his direction, but all he did was vanish Harry’s sick-up with an annoyed flourish.

Ignoring Snape’s bitter attitude, Harry took a deep breath, trying to tamp down his nausea. Looking around, he gathered that they were in a Muggle neighborhood of some kind, considering the numerous streetlamps dotting either side of the lane. There were a few shops down the road, all closed for the night of course, but the area appeared to consist mostly of houses. The buildings were very quaint, and of a more old-fashioned architecture which, in Harry’s view, called to mind a wizard-like style. However, the street was narrow and the road lined for traffic, with a smattering of cars parked off to one side.

Intrigued, Harry inquired, “Er… Where are we?”

“Norwich,” was Snape’s short reply as he turned on his heel and began walking across the street. Feeling the urgency of not wanting to be left behind, Harry hoisted himself up into a standing position, holding his head with a supporting hand as the pain sloshed about.

“Is that… near London?” Harry guessed, taking careful steps in the professor’s direction.

“Your vast knowledge of geography is truly inspiring,” came the snide, uncooperative retort. Snape hadn’t gone far, thankfully; he was beneath the circle of light from the opposite street lamp.

“So, not near London, then,” Harry sighed, weary of the back and forth in light of his current state. If he’d had any idea how unimaginably unpleasant Apparition was, he might not have gone through with it!

Well-- that probably wasn’t true. But he may have given a touch more thought for preparation, at least.

Snape was inspecting the lamp post, leaning over with precise, mechanical movements to examine different sections of the metal column.

“This is the one,” the man announced.

Harry, perplexed, looked between Snape and the post. “The one… what? What were we looking for?”

The professor took no notice of his questions, instead brandishing his wand, holding it within a closed fist. The point faced downward at his feet, Snape began what sounded like an incantation: “ _Corporis Spagyrici pulvere plumbum in aurum Convertit._ ”

At the conclusion of his recitation, Harry watched with dazed wonder as every lantern light… _shifted_. As if turned on an axis, the cone of light which he and Snape had been standing in slanted gradually sideways. Likewise with all the rest, it was as if all the street’s lamps were twisted in odd directions; a chaotic light show which was as confusing as it was fascinating.

Distracted as he was, he hadn’t noticed Snape’s silent departure. Casting his eyes around the scene, he spotted the man heading toward another lamp post. Jogging to catch up, Harry could see that this lantern’s light was quite typical, facing straight down at the ground as a normal lamp should.

Snape repeated his earlier action, this time with a different phrase: “ _Ars est sine arte, cujus principium est mentiri, medium laborare, et finis mendicare._ ”

It was definitely Latin, Harry concluded, though he’d never heard of any spell incantations that were so… long. Still, the effects were obvious; again, the lights shifted, performing some strange, incongruous choreography. And again, Snape travelled to a third, normal-looking post, uttering another string of Latin: “ _Ad quod obtinendum imperium, oportet simulare habes potestatem._ ”

The lights all moved once more. Only, this time, they all converged in unison, gathering at a single spot further down the lane.

Snape headed for the bright point, Harry trailing behind, straining to keep up with the man's pace. As they drew near, Harry could see that the streetlamps were all pointed at a small antique shop, in whose window was a rectangular standing mirror. The professor stopped in front of it, half turning in Harry's direction.

“Stand here, face the glass,” he ordered, pointing directly beside him.

Harry tentatively did as he was told, turning his gaze toward the mirror squarely.

As he did, Harry frowned, realizing that the scene reflected was not the dark street he was standing on; catching a glimpse of expansive sky, Harry whirled around on the spot, looking behind with confused wonder.

Much to his astonishment, the scene was entirely changed. There was a building like a tall black box against the nighttime sky. Heavy with shadow, it lay like a colossus atop the hillside, its face obscured by darkness. Before it, an immense field of wild grass billowed in the wind, stirred in circular eddies by a broad, crescent-shaped copse of trees. To his left, the landscape dropped off and continued much further away than he could see. A small grouping of dead leaves drifted lazily by a long, thickly-wrought iron fence which travelled a wide berth around the distant building. It stood at the height of Harry’s waist, as staid and foreboding as the structure it sectioned off.

Harry blinked, brow furrowed as a realization crept up on him. “They were passwords,” he murmured, turning to face Snape for confirmation. “They weren’t incantations-- they were passwords.”

The man didn’t even spare him a glance, walking along the perimeter of the fence. “You are truly a shining beacon of intellect,” was his dry, offhand comment.

He huffed, glaring at the man’s back. “So, this is it, huh?” His gaze traced the edges of the building, hard to define in the dark. “Pretty big safehouse. Lots of… space.”

Snape didn’t respond. His attention was rooted elsewhere, his footfalls pausing as he lifted his wand. A tap on the iron caused the fence to momentarily, _gelatinously_ quiver, mirage-like. Harry blinked, approaching the nearest curved spire of the fence, careful to use his own wand to poke it.

“Well, that’s weird,” he announced as the solid-appearing object wobbled in a disconcerting manner. “Is this one of the wards?”

“Don’t touch it,” Snape ordered, tone sharp. A frustrated sigh whooshed out of Harry as he trailed along behind the man.

He stopped abruptly. There was a small break in the fence, as if a narrow snippet had been cut out of the metal. Snape pointed his wand at the empty space in between.

“ _Revelio_.”

Before their eyes, the iron tendrils unravelled, reforming together into a grand, imposing gate, standing solitary in the unruly grass. Curiously, the metal was not pristine as it had appeared earlier, but rusted and gnarled by age.

The gate had to be at least ten feet tall, and, as the professor laid a palm against it, a bright shaft of light appeared to cleave the barrier in two. It opened outward with some difficulty, the joints creaking and squealing as the metal split from the center.

“Blimey, er,” Harry wondered aloud, looking up. “What is this place…?”

Snape’s reply was clipped. “Quiet.”

Harry shot him a nasty look at his back, but it went unacknowledged. Snape’s boots crunched against the tall grass as he stepped through the gate, stopping after he was a few paces in. Harry followed, watching as the entryway closed behind them, breaking down to reform the iron fence it had originally been.

When he turned back to the professor, he saw Snape swish his wand in a wide arc. “ _Ostendo_ ,” the professor murmured. In response to this apparent incantation, several tendrils of light sprouted from different directions, all converging somewhere in the middle of Snape’s chest. Harry jumped as one of the lights passed directly through him, before he realized: he, too, seemed to be attached to magical threads, originating from the same sources. His sternum glowed with… _something_. Harry couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing, and he doubted that Snape would answer if he asked.

The professor reached out to one of the thin threads attached to himself, pulling. It bent easily, and, using his other hand, he frayed the string, spreading it out before him like a book.

Harry hesitated, but only momentarily. If he waited for Snape to actually instruct him, then he would never learn anything. Squinting at the bright line affixed to himself, Harry took hold of it in one hand and plucked it with the other, copying Snape’s motion. When he pulled it apart, a collection of images spread out before him. To start, there appeared to be many, many bars of runes, all grouped together in separate areas. Between each section of runes were shimmering lines of color, which appeared to connect different images together. These lines fanned out, web-like, leading tangentially to dark shapes of varying sizes and silhouettes, which, in turn, bore their own attached runic inscriptions. His eyes darted around, overwhelmed, trying to find an apparent beginning or end; however, there didn’t seem to be any semblance of order that Harry could understand. There were a few oddities he noted: a changing number which appeared to repeat a patterned sequence, an energetic orb of light which bounced within the confines of a dark square, and a section of runes which appeared to fade away and reappear at odd intervals.

One strange grouping led to another, which led to even more... It was a vast, complex tableau, one that Harry couldn’t even begin to decipher. Mystified, he chanced a peek at Snape, hoping to glean something from his actions.

Only, the moment he looked up, he found the man staring directly at him. Harry cringed; Snape didn’t appear remotely pleased.

“Touch a single thing, and you will find out what it is like to Apparate in a full body bind,” Snape’s voice sounded, clear and dark. He hadn’t been planning on fiddling with anything… _much_. But his hands froze in place, taking the threat to heart. He couldn’t chance it, could he? All it took was one spell, one moment of Apparation, that would whisk him away to--

Pushing past that unpleasant thought, Harry frowned. “What is all this?” he questioned, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be ignored once again.

The professor looked as if he’d like to, but, to Harry’s relief, a reply came. “Warding.”

“Isn’t a ward just a spell that is on a location instead of a single target?” He thought he recalled hearing that at some point.

“No,” was Snape’s brief retort. He waited the requisite few seconds for the man to explain, but he didn’t. He merely went back to his work. Harry blinked slowly, thoroughly irritated, and let go of the sheet of light in his hands. It rolled back into itself, like a very thin scroll.

“Right,” he grumbled. “So… How long is this going to take?”

“ _Ligo_ ,” Snape muttered with a downward slash of his wand. The streams of light receded the way they came, until they disappeared entirely.

“You’re already done, aren’t you?” Harry surmised, defeated.

Snape glanced his way with narrowed eyes. A clear affirmation, if an _annoying_ one.

“I recommend not purposely making yourself ill during the next trip.”

“ _Purposely?!_ ” Harry spluttered, indignant. “I didn’t do it on purpose! You think I _like_ sicking up?”

The older man’s gaze was bland. Doubtful. “You tensed directly before Apparition,” he pointed out, as if this fact alone evidenced Harry’s inadequacy.

Harry threw his arms out for sarcastic emphasis. “Well _forgive_ me for not wanting to be anywhere near you.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Likewise,” he sneered. “And yet, here we are, due to-- Who was it again?” His confusion was obviously feigned. “Ah, that’s right. It was, in fact, _you_ who asked for this.”

“I didn’t _ask_ to be treated like dirt!” Harry erupted, fuming.

“Neither did I ask to be saddled with an entitled, self-righteous brat,” he shot back, “and yet, somehow, I must find it in me to endure.”

“What is your problem?” Harry demanded, his arms flailing yet again. “I mean, what is really _wrong_ with you, that you can’t even manage to _pretend_ that you’re any good at being a teacher? Or-- being an Order member, even?”

“ _I_ am presently performing my duties admirably,” Snape countered, unperturbed. “ _You_ , however, are incompetent.”

“This is what I’m talking about! Do you actually _want_ me to fail? If you were any kind of real Order member, you’d be helping me get stronger!”

“Does it sting, Potter?” the man taunted him. “To be insignificant? What have you done to earn any of that ‘help’ you so desire?”

Harry felt a pressure building behind his eyelids, blooming across his forehead, threatening to burst. “What do you expect?! For me to get on my knees and beg?”

Snape’s smug expression was vile. “A pity that your admirers are not here to witness your frenzied tirade.”

“Are you enjoying this?” Harry questioned. “Is it fun for you to cut me down?”

“Not nearly as much ‘fun’ as you find being a belligerent, self-serving, _arrogant_ \--”

“I am _not_ my father!”

His shout blundered through the air, heavy with implication. Snape’s brows drew downward, his expression darkening. Still-- In Harry’s riled state, he had a hard time feeling sorry for dredging up the fact he’d snooped around in Snape’s memories last year. He was prepared for the next barb; he braced himself for it, eyes trained on Snape’s tense frame. But, there was nothing. A thick silence clung to the man, emphasized only by the stony way Snape watched him, expression giving away nothing.

Then, in the midst of Harry’s labored breathing, Snape vanished, the only indicator of his passage an abrupt swirl of robes.

Harry jerked, his body automatically springing forward to catch up, but of course it was too late. Snape was long gone, horrendously out of reach.

His first reaction: panic. Unadulterated, wild fear. He felt certain that Snape had planned this betrayal, waited for an opportunity to leave Harry stranded and without any way of escape. He was a long way from Hogwarts, a long way from _anything_ familiar. For so many years, he’d ping-ponged exclusively between the Dursley’s home and the school. And here? Harry’s body swung around, eyes combing through the countryside surrounding him. There wasn’t even an opportunity to call the Knight Bus, since there was no _road_ any longer.

A stiff breeze stirred the long, unkempt grass around him. He was alone and, by the looks of that fence he’d passed through earlier, trapped. He wouldn’t be surprised if Snape let him rot there until morning, despite the awful chill. Was he expected to go in the building? It was still a distance away, and its silhouette seemed to grow more ominous with Snape’s absence.

Harry shivered, more from dread than the cold. All his effort to get to this point, and for what? So Snape could just _abandon_ him here? Was he supposed to take that lying down?

His blood boiled at the thought. If that horrid git thought that he could keep Harry from being an Order member, then he was going to be sorely disappointed. He just had to find…

There was a sense of something nearby; he could feel it in the same way he could feel people staring, a prickling sensation across his skin. He reached for his wand, clutching it with stiff fingers. “ _Revelio_ ,” he muttered, wand pointed ahead, but nothing happened. Yet, he could still feel it, like a physical… _presence_.

Harry’s eyes darted around, hoping that his attention might catch on something of interest. A quick _Lumos_ lit up the area in the dark, but there was nothing to see. Except grass. Puzzled, Harry frowned, closing his eyes to concentrate. He couldn’t say why, but the feeling was right nearby.

He lifted his wand again. How had Snape done it? Ah, yes -- a broad sweep, and the incantation: “ _Ostendo_.”

Nothing.

Harry sighed, pursing his lips as he tried not to feel discouraged. It was perfectly normal for the spell not to work the first time. Rarely did anyone pick up a brand new concept on the very first try. At least, that was what Remus had told him, many years ago.

Not for the first time, Harry wished that things were different. That Remus had been able to keep his job, stay in the castle. That he’d been able to teach Harry more about Defense, his father… anything, really. He wished that the man had been able to take him on this mission, instead of Snape. He wished that Remus was there, right at that moment, to help instruct him.

It was all fruitless, of course. Childish. Like all the times he’d wished for his parents to be alive on the candles of his imaginary birthday cakes. Still, this felt familiar; he was accustomed to this particular ache. It would soon pass, if he ignored it.

Harry took in a deep breath, holding it. He needed to focus if he was going to attempt this spell properly. Letting out the whoosh of breath, he steeled himself, readying his stance.

Then-- “ _Ostendo!_ ”

His wand sliced the air, decisive, and he felt his magic flow through him and outward. Harry opened his eyes.

The threads were there, just as before, attached to his chest. The triumph that swelled in him was short-lived; right nearby, the threads were also attached to something else. Something _invisible_. He jolted back, pointing his wand with suspicion at the empty patch of air.

There wasn’t a single stir. Which was odd, Harry realized, since the lights attached to him were moving as he moved, disturbed by every tiny shift of his body. As he observed, the strings of light were entirely still. Upon further inspection, they also appeared to be… more dull, lacking the brilliance of the lines connected to Harry himself.

As he watched, they appeared to fade away more and more, growing more obscure and lifeless. Could it be…?

“An afterimage of Snape,” Harry said aloud, more to break the silence than anything. The prospect of such a thing existing was interesting, but not especially useful. He had to figure a way out, and simply knowing that a trace of information was left behind didn’t mean he knew how to decipher it.

It was pointless to search for clues, he surmised. Here was one right in front of him, but it was unusable. He had to figure a way out of this without bothering with following the professor. After all, that’s what an Order member would do, right? Real members didn’t need babysitters. If he could manage without his, maybe Dumbledore would give up trying to pair him with Snape.

So... Transport. Harry bounced around a few ideas, meandering toward the fence to inspect it. The crack that Snape had used to reveal the gate was not there. It seemed that his instinct had been correct: There would be no getting out they way he came. He tried summoning a broom, though it was an effort made in vain, as it turned out. None arrived, meaning either none were in the vicinity, or Harry’s instructions had been too vague for the magic to work. Snape had specifically mentioned that the safehouses weren’t connected to the Floo network... so, that was out.

That left Portkey and Apparition. Both of which were… daunting prospects. His experience with Portkeys left much to be desired, considering the last one had delivered him directly to Voldemort, and that was leaving out the fact he didn’t have a clue how they were made. And Apparition? His recent experience wasn’t exactly pleasant, but at least it seemed the simpler, less terrifying option.

He’d certainly seen a lot of Apparition before. Fred and George were popping around all over the place last summer; he’d been able to ask them loads of questions, and Hermione had been there to supply the gaps in their knowledge. Harry had the _principle_ well in hand… It was the execution that worried him.

The consequences flashed through his mind. Nausea. Pain. Expulsion. _Splinching_. They gave him pause, but not enough of one to change his resolve. Being out there in the open, unable to leave by normal means… It felt dangerous. As if, at any moment, Snape would be sending a contingent of Death Eaters to haul him off. His muscles constricted with anxiety, telling him to run, and quickly.

He held his wand in his clenched fist, blowing out a tense breath. He knew he had to go somewhere familiar, somewhere he could visualize. Then, he simply had to have the confidence to get there in one piece. Easier said than done, but it was manageable.

After a deliberation of a few seconds, the only clear place he could go was Privet Drive. He wished Snape had told him more about where he was; there was no way to tell how far he was from Surrey. At the very least, he could assume that Hogwarts was _farther_ , but that wasn’t saying much. Did it matter, the distance? Harry couldn’t be certain.

Still, he’d had a lot of time to sit around the Dursley’s area. He could picture it very clearly, and that was the point. Harry focused, allowing his eyes to fall closed once more. He needed a place that was out of the way, not likely to draw attention when he appeared out of nowhere. And that was _when_ , not _if_. The more he thought of it with certainty, the more resolve he would have when he finally acted. Another point of wisdom given to him by Remus.

The park. The old, overgrown bike trail, defunct due to the condition of the bridge at its center which was meant to cross over a small stream. It had become his favorite spot during his latest stint with the Dursleys. Quiet, out of the way. Dudley never bothered him there, since it was quite a hike uphill. Harry had, for the first time in his life, been able to do his summer homework in peace. He remembered letting Hedwig out, watching her swoop around in lazy circles as he composed letters to his friends. Mornings spent knee-deep in the stream, trying to catch fish as they passed by. Rainy afternoons spent napping on his Transfiguration text.

The memories were bright and clear. The happiest he owned, in relation to the Dursleys, if they could be called “related” to them at all. Harry didn’t even have to feign his desire to be there; it was the closest thing he had to a home that he had cultivated himself.

 _When_. He kept the word in his mind, a covenant. _When I get there, I will find a way back to Hogwarts._

He pictured himself atop the broken wooden boards of the bridge. He pictured the scraggly grass, the canopy of trees, the “caution” sign posted beside the trail, the flowing water, the fast-moving clouds… _I will get there._

Harry shifted his weight, thrumming with nervous energy. His palm was sweaty where he held his wand, but he did not let go. Would not let go. He would arrive exactly as planned. He had to.

_I will._

With a sickening lurch and a frantic _crack_ , Harry’s form twisted into nothingness, and he disappeared on the spot.

When he arrived, Harry immediately heaved, falling to his knees in the mud beside the stream. Having already emptied his stomach not long ago, there was nothing to purge, but the nausea was still relentless. However, the effects were not as bad as he thought they would be; his headache was only a fraction of the severity it had been before. It took him far less time to recover.

Standing, Harry checked himself. All his body parts were accounted for, thankfully. No pain, other than the lingering complaints from his jostled head. Had he actually…?

Mystified, he looked about. He was in the park, with all its well-known and well-loved attributes -- though, he’d never been there so late at night before. Harry allowed himself a small, confused smile. He’d done it. He’d _actually_ done it. He’d been looking for opportunities like this, to reach beyond his current capabilities, and here he was! Exactly where he wanted to be. His plans for returning weren’t solid, per se, but he’d made the first step.

Harry had barely made a move to turn round, when he was suddenly beset by magical cords, binding his entire body. Harry yelped in surprise, his neck jerking away from his restraints as he searched out his attacker. In the gloom, the figure was hard to make out, but they approached with alarming swiftness, looming over Harry’s prone form.

An intense circle of light erupted in front of his eyes, the glaring brightness causing Harry to cringe. There was a pause -- a painful one, since his eyes had yet to adjust -- before a harsh voice accosted him, “ _Potter?_ ”

Was that… Snape? The wand light dimmed as the man’s arm swept backward. Sure enough, the professor, his profile illuminated by his own _Lumos_ , was standing before him. He was very still, jaw set, and black eyes calculating. His expression, though traditionally dour, appeared with heightened severity due to the deep shadows slashed across his face. There was fierce energy to his attention, a prolonged moment where he did nothing and said nothing.

It didn’t take long for the scrutiny to become tiresome. “Planning on letting me go any time soon?” Harry prompted. His inability to move, and the tightness of his bonds, was beginning to chafe.

Snape straightened, his expression cleared of all previous constraints. It was odd; Harry could tell when the man’s face changed, but he could define nothing, or even differentiate between what made two of his expressions unique. Hard to tell what any of it meant, and even harder to care when Snape was such an unrepentant prick.

“Hello? I know you heard me!” Harry growled, meeting the man’s gaze.

In that moment, the disconcerting, _familiar_ sensation of someone rooting around in his brain descended on him. He flinched back, closing his eyes against it. It was, after all, the only thing he knew how to do.

“Stay out of my head,” he demanded, glaring at the ground.

Another moment of quiet. Harry didn’t break it that time, though Snape’s voice was cautious when he spoke. “Where have you been?” the man questioned.

This was too much for Harry to handle. “Where have I _been?!_ ” he shouted, the words heaving out of him with great effort. “You left me behind in Norwich, you bloody conniving bastard! Do you get off on this or something? What the hell do you mean ‘where have I been’?!”

The professor snorted, turning away. “Well, I suppose there can be no doubt,” he muttered, the comment nearly inaudible to Harry before he found himself free from his imprisonment, Snape releasing him with a lazy flick of his wand.

Harry sprang up, the force of his anger propelling him. “You were seriously going to make me wait for hours, weren’t you?” he accused.

Snape tucked his wand away in a sleeve, offering Harry only a slow blink. “Yes.”

“I cannot _believe_ \--!”

“How did you get here?” the professor interjected, the question firm.

Harry glared at him for the interruption. “I Apparated,” he gloated, hoping his snotty tone might disturb the man’s control. “Seeing as you’re totally incapable of teaching anyone how to do anything, I did it myself.”

Snape wasn’t amused, but neither did he react as Harry wanted him to. “Really,” the man intoned, voice dripping with such doubt that it hardly sounded like a question.

“Yeah, _really_ ,” Harry retorted.

“And how is it that you found my location?”

“What?” he blared. “I didn’t go looking for you, I just went to Privet Drive! You know, where I _live_?”

Snape glanced about the surrounding trees before resetting his gaze on Harry. “This is quite a distance from where you spend your summers.”

 _Shows what you know_ , Harry thought. Not that he intended to correct him. “So what? It’s a place I’ve been before, so I came here.”

“A place you’ve been before,” Snape repeated.

“And what are you doing here anyway? Thought you were supposed to be going around to safehouses.” _Unless he also had_ other _business to attend to_ , Harry darkly mused.

The professor lifted a single eyebrow. “Does the dwelling place of the Boy Who Lived not qualify?”

“Well--” Harry cut himself off, not really having an answer.

“You are aware that there are many wards and safeguards on this location, which preserve your _precious_ self at all times while you are here.”

He’d never thought of it in those terms before. It had always just seemed clear that the ward made up of his mother’s sacrifice was the most important one. After all, it was the only thing keeping him there in that miserable place.

“Especially,” Snape continued, voice smooth, “considering the terrible dangers that would, inevitably, fall upon whoever was foolish enough to leave the only building in the entire town with indomitable protections.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Harry groused, done with Snape’s games.

The professor cast a hasty _Tempus_ before slashing across the conjured numbers with his wand, causing them to sizzle into nonexistence. He said nothing, but Harry huffed, eyeing the man. “So. There are wards here.” He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It made his skin crawl, and he glanced about, realizing that it was possible that, all this time, he’d been monitored here.

Snape merely grunted, though he did cast a brief, disapproving glance at Harry. “No more magic,” he demanded, firm. “As pleasant as it might be to witness your expulsion, it would ultimately be… _inconvenient_.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t exactly planning on it! Not that anything he could say in this situation would matter; as usual, Snape had the aggravating talent to make Harry seem as insignificant as possible.

Still, there was a point to be gleaned from this. How was he to learn anything he wanted to know without being able to cast any spells? The Restrictions for Underage Magic were still very much in place, a fact which had slipped his mind entirely before he’d gone on this excursion. Yet now, it seemed to hinder him at every turn. Harry realized, with a chagrined grimace, that this was what Hermione had meant by “some difficulty” with him going out as an Order member.

He found himself, ironically, echoing Snape’s sentiment. _Inconvenient_. Face to face with that thought, Harry considered it a wonder that Dumbledore was allowing him to do this at all. He did not, however, intended to give up.

“Potter,” Snape’s voice, abrasive as the crack of a whip, confronted him. Having been lost in thought, Harry was roused quite suddenly by his next command: “Give me your wand.”

“What?” he balked, immediately on the defensive. “Why?”

“I will abide none of this childish defiance of yours,” the professor declared. “The Headmaster may trust your word, but I do not.”

“I’m not going to just give you my wand!”

The air seemed to grow a little colder, then. Snape’s glower was direct. Sharp. “Explicit disobedience, is it?” he remarked, tone full of barely-concealed malice. “I expected your resolve to break, but I never could have predicted it would happen so soon.”

Harry paled. _Right_. His promise to Dumbledore. He’d almost entirely forgotten about it, in light of Snape’s prolonged hostility. The threat to his position necessitated some backpedalling, but he couldn’t entirely give up the ghost. Not when the man was so damn smarmy about everything.

He set his jaw, countering with: “I seem to remember Professor Dumbledore saying you had to let me participate, instead of abandoning me in some random location while you swanned off to do… whatever!”

“I agreed to nothing of the sort,” was Snape’s smooth reply. Harry had no doubt that was true: the man was nothing if not wily.

“And if I told him exactly how this all went?” he challenged. “You think he’d care that you didn’t technically agree? Or would he see your attempts to sabotage me for exactly what they are?”

This appeared to give the man before him some pause. His features were hard to make out in the darkness, his eyes inscrutable. At length, he said, “If your intent was to bully me into a corner, you’ll be _absolutely delighted_ to know how miserably you’ve failed.” His voice was full of ridicule. “I told you before that I have nothing to prove.”

“I don’t have to take any orders from you if you won’t hold up your end of the bargain,” Harry announced.

“I could just take the wand by force, you realize,” Snape pointed out, his intent a dark spectre behind his words.

Harry found it difficult to speak around the fear lodged in his throat, but somehow managed it. “And how exactly would that be any less inconvenient for you?”

The professor snorted. “To start, it would render you unable to commit the double-crime of Apparating without a license while underage.”

“I’m not going to Apparate again,” he asserted, exasperated, “so long as you don’t leave me behind.”

“If you cannot take orders,” Snape sneered, “then you have no business being an Order member at all.”

“I get it! You hate me!” Harry blurted. “But the whole point-- I’m doing all this for the Order! If I’m not fit, then _make_ me fit! I don’t care, so long as I’m not forced to sit around all day waiting for someone else to do the work for me!”

Snape did not respond, the circle of light from his wand as still and controlled as the rest of him. Harry clenched his eyes closed before opening them again, his next words coming on the back of a sigh. “Isn’t teaching supposed to be your job?”

There was a rustle of cloth as the man shifted. Harry observed him, wary, as he spoke. “If you cannot abide your end of the agreement, there is nothing to be done.”

Harry’s hopes sank far and away from him, so removed from his mind that it was almost as if he’d never had them. Of course it would turn out this way. The one chance he had to get out of the school, to actually make a useful contribution to the war effort-- and it was wasted on the likes of Severus Snape.

He looked out across the stream, watching as the faint moonlight tiptoed atop the moving water. He didn’t like this place at night. It was too quiet, too gloomy. With a frown, he commented, “Let me guess: you’re already finished with your inspection.”

The man’s boots crunched against the grass and dirt as he approached. Harry tensed, his frown growing larger. Snape stopped a foot away. “We are leaving,” was all he said.

Numb, Harry stared out at some unfocused middle distance. Trees swayed nearby. A blur of deep green, they towered above him, obscuring the stars. He didn’t even look in Snape’s direction as he grabbed hold of his arm, waiting in a terse silence before they vanished.

“I did not expect you to return so early,” Dumbledore said, eyeing Harry with concern. He stared at the intricate wood of the man’s desk, letting Snape do all the talking.

The man was sitting across from the Headmaster’s desk, pointedly in the chair that Harry had not occupied previously. He wasn’t sure why he’d even noticed that, but with the tone of the night still hanging over his shoulders, he couldn’t seem to help it. Snape addressed the Headmaster in clipped, professional tones. “There is a matter which I felt necessary to bring to your attention as soon as possible.”

Harry inwardly cringed, squeezing his hands tightly together in his lap. Now that he thought about it, all this was going to sound bad, wasn’t it? He’d had a few choice words for Snape, not to mention how he went poking around with the ward magic without asking, and Apparating for the first time ever even though it was _very_ illegal. He well remembered being surrounded by Wizengamot members, terrified. That time, he’d at least been in the right. How was he supposed to argue for himself in this instance? The circumstances were more muddy, less noble. No other witnesses except Snape, who Dumbledore trusted. He wasn’t likely to receive a glowing testimonial.

Dumbledore waved a hand as a wordless prompt, brows still drawn together with worry, and Snape continued, “The wards at Privet Drive have been tampered with.”

Harry’s head snapped up and he stared at the man, shocked. _What?_ The Headmaster appeared equally disturbed, leaning forward in his seat as he spoke. “In what way?”

“The surrounding protections are sound. There has been no suspicious correspondence in or out, and Arabella reports that nothing out of the ordinary has occurred,” Snape said. “However, an alarm ward was tripped. The house itself is encompassed by a new enchantment.”

“The house?” Harry interrupted. “You mean, the Dursley’s house?”

Dumbledore’s kind acknowledgement felt like an admonition. “Yes, Harry,” he replied, his attention returning back to Snape. “The ward is limited specifically to their dwelling?”

“Yes. I was unable to identify its purpose. Although, it appears that the anchors of the ward are the inhabitants themselves.”

Harry wasn’t totally following, but Dumbledore’s expression grew quite grave. “So... Whoever has done this is aware of far more than they should be.”

“Assuming your band of misfits didn’t blunder in and accomplish the impossible feat of erecting a ward on a house with blood-bond defenses, then yes.”

The Headmaster didn’t react to the man’s snark. “I will contact our defense experts to see if we can determine the purpose of this ward.”

Snape snorted. “Good luck.”

“Is there,” Dumbledore’s gaze deliberately slid over to Harry, “anything further I should be made aware of?”

Anxiety slammed into Harry once more. This was it.

Snape, however, stood up. “Nothing at all,” he announced. “My debrief is concluded.”

The older man considered the two of them, brow creased, before prompting, “And you, Harry?”

Stunned, he could only murmur, “Oh-- uh, n-nothing. That’s… yeah. That’s it.”

If he doubted that uncertain pronouncement, he made no mention of it. “Very well,” Dumbledore replied, his expression still troubled. “I will inform you both when you are needed once more.”

Snape left the room quickly, the door closing behind him before Harry had even risen from his seat. He left soon after, his mind buzzing with all that had occurred, and Snape’s strange report.

Just _what_ was going on? And why, after finally becoming an Order member, did he feel more confused and hopeless than ever?

These thoughts chased him through the halls as he walked, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak. He couldn’t think of returning to Gryffindor Tower just yet; his body felt restless, energized by fear and uncertainty.

He wandered, aimless, for far longer than he could keep track of. The school was so familiar to him that it was impossible to get lost, but he had nowhere in particular to be. Well, other than bed. Truth be told, though, he wasn’t feeling all that tired. The halls were quiet, not many professors prowling about. His footsteps were loud to his ears.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Harry froze, muscles seizing at the sound of Snape’s voice nearby. His turn was slow and mechanical, rickety joints pulling in the direction of the voice, expecting trouble. What he found was… trouble of a different sort.

Snape was faced toward him, but he had not addressed Harry. Before him was none other than Draco Malfoy, draped in a dark cloak with its hood down, revealing his strikingly blonde head. Holding his breath, Harry carefully backed himself against the opposite wall, unnerved by their proximity. In his distraction, he’d wandered far too close for comfort. Well-- either that, or Snape and Malfoy were exceptionally good at sneaking around.

“Shouldn’t I?” drawled that velvety, imperious voice that made Harry’s stomach turn over. “And where exactly should I be, Severus?”

“That should be obvious,” was Snape’s unenthused response.

“Then saddle me with a detention,” Malfoy challenged, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t care, because I _have_ to speak with you.”

The professor shifted. Harry noticed, then, that he was carrying a small crate filled with vials. “And you think now is an appropriate time?”

“I think any time I can catch you in between your _busy_ schedule is appropriate enough,” the prat’s voice withered with sarcasm toward the end of his sentence, his head canting toward the left. Harry could imagine his expression with clarity: The twist of the boy’s lips, his indignant, infantile glare, the way his cheeks sunk in, barely holding back a grimace.

Snape’s answering scowl was just as familiar. “Draco, I told you I am unavailable, and I meant it.”

“So you have time for that impetuous little Mudblood, but no time for _me?_ ” Malfoy accused, his voice straining itself.

“She lost Slytherin every single point they earned. It wasn’t a pleasant chat, by any stretch of the imagination.”

Small patches of blond hair tossed as Draco shook his head. “Well all the more ridiculous that you set aside time for her, isn’t it? Do you think I care whether or not it was pleasant? I’m not here to engage in idle chatter with you, Severus! This is _serious!_ ”

Snape’s reply was flat. “You are treading dangerous ground.”

He heard a derisive snort shove its way out of Malfoy’s mouth. “And you think I’m not utterly aware of that?”

“I cannot speak with you.”

“Do you think that will change anything?” Malfoy asked, and Harry thought he caught an edge of desperation to his tone. “Do you think avoiding me is going to stop this?”

The professor leveled a shrewd look at the boy. “Don’t be a fool.”

Malfoy stepped toward him, tension singing through his frame. “Do you remember what you promised my father?”

There was no reply. Harry squinted at them, wondering if he’d missed something, but Snape’s form was still, unwavering.

Then, Malfoy stepped back, appearing to relax. “Of course,” he scoffed, curtailed by a scornful chuckle. “He was an idiot to trust you. You can’t protect anyone. But I can. I _will_.”

“You are out of your depth, Draco.” Harry had never heard such a harsh reprimand directed at the spoiled blonde. “There is nothing to be done.”

Malfoy rounded on Snape so suddenly that Harry’s impulse led his hand to his wand. The older man, however, was stalwart, unmoving as Malfoy shoved his face next to his, wand held taut at his side: A threat. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the boy snarled. “And that’s why I was tasked with this. Not _you_.”

“Be _careful_ ,” Snape sneered in the boy’s face, “what you say next.”

As the two of them remained entangled in heated debate, Harry felt less and less comfortable witnessing it. Was it pushing his luck, to remain hidden like this, a mere few feet separating him? He remembered well the consequences of Snape’s ire. Not to mention, the impasse which slithered between the two was unnerving, as if they were having several conversations at once, none of them intersecting. He couldn’t follow it properly, even if he tried.

It was Malfoy who first broke contact, the sound of his steps loud and fumbling, bumping into each other, careless.

A word stayed behind, shimmering in the darkness, long after Malfoy had departed.

“Coward.”


	4. Mutual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we come to chapter four, after what feels like a whole forever of writing. Thank you so much for your patience. We hope you enjoy it. Thank you also, as ever, to our lovely betas. We love you.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 5: Aching

It was breakfast and a bomb had dropped.

The suspended silence was wedged between the bomb's deafening impact and the sudden, piercing screams of survivors. Cleo felt the collective panic like a punch to the gut.  
  
But that was hyperbole working again. All she knew was that it was breakfast and she had a letter.

“To the lovely Miss Cleo,” it accused, and her stomach turned away from her.

Cal.

The handwriting impressed upon her before any of the words could. Before she even read her name, she knew. There was no return address-- he usually didn’t bother with those. There wasn’t even a sending address. Just “Clytemnestra Croft” written in his unmistakable scrawl.

It was a miracle in and of itself that it had made its way to her.

In a distracted lapse of anxiety, she tore the side open and pulled the bit of parchment from the confines of its envelope (another odd, uncharacteristic detail -- where did he get an envelope?); her initial instinct was a momentary jolt of excitement, borne, no doubt, on the back of the loneliness she had experienced.

But then the guilt settled only seconds after she’d caught the beginning of the letter. _To the lovely Miss Cleo_.

Immediately, she knew she was anything but.

The glimpse of the first paragraph didn’t help matters.

_Oi! I haven’t heard from you in a while. You said you’d write, and I’ll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Her reaction was histrionic: Her arm snapped over, turning the letter prone and away from her, as if she had seen something she shouldn’t have. Her head tossed itself skyward and she grimaced.

“You all right?”

Cleo couldn’t see her, but she recognized the first year’s voice. Her lips flattened into an embarrassed scowl and she rolled her shoulders back. “Fine.”

She heard the wooden bench across from her settle as someone plopped themselves down. There was a beat of a pause, then:

“What’s that?”

Cleo managed to pull her head down as her fingers drummed themselves idly on the back of the parchment. “A letter.”

“Oh,” Thea breathed, brown curls bobbing, haphazard, as she canted her head. “Who from?”

_Does it matter? What’s it to you?_

She closed her eyes against this impulse and swallowed. “A friend.”

Thea reached across the table to grab a piece of toast that Cleo had left abandoned on her plate. “That’s nice,” she commented. “I like getting letters. Especially from my mums. They send me packages.”

Cleo was grateful for the unorthodox syntax, if only because it allowed her an opportunity to deflect attention away from her. “Mums?” she asked as she leaned her cheek into the palm of her hand.

“Yep, got two,” Thea hummed, a bit guarded, before taking a bite of toast. Mouth still full, she shot back to Cleo: “How many do you have?”

“Just the one,” she replied, eyes crawling to the back of the parchment again.

Thea seemed wait a moment before remarking: “I like that answer.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing -- it’s stupid,” she dismissed. There was a moment of reticence as Thea fiddled with the piece of toast in her fingers, before she looked up, sheepish. “Thanks for not making me explain.”

Cleo could only wonder how many times that had come up before.

However, her principle acknowledgement was a wave of the hand. “What do they send you?”

“Care packages, usually,” Thea explained. “I mean, I’ve only gotten the one since I’ve been here. But they used to do this when I went to camp.”

“Gee, camp kid too, huh?” Cleo mused, her lips upticked in a small smile.

“You bet,” Thea shot back, playful. “You ever go?”

“No. My dad tried to get me to try it once, but I got homesick immediately and demanded I be brought back home.”

“What a baby,” Thea teased as she grabbed a clementine from one of the fruit bowls nearby.

Cleo hummed softly in agreement. “What sort of camp did you go to?”

“Space camp,” Thea supplied, her fingernails puncturing the peel of her clementine. “I’ve only been twice, over the summers, but it was loads of fun.”

“Space camp,” Cleo murmured, thoughtful. “Y’know, that was the only sort of camp that seemed at all interesting to me. What do you even do there?”

“Stargazing, mostly. At least the one I went to did. It’s not like it had a lot of money to spare. So there was nothing fancy, not like some of the American camps my Mums looked at when we were considering. But all my counselors knew a whole lot of stuff, and we learned where to find all the constellations. Not to mention I saw Saturn for the first time. Can you believe that?” She plopped a piece of clementine in her mouth, her eyes glimmering, as if enraptured with a recollection. “Saturn’s so big that you can see it all the way here with a telescope. I could even see the rings. Most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Cleo’s voice was wistful, but kind. “Sounds very important to you.”

“You should try it,” Thea insisted after swallowing. “I could show you. I still remember the spot.”

“I’ve seen her before,” Cleo told her. “Second year Astronomy.”

“Professor Sinistra’s going to let us look at _planets?!_ ” Thea suddenly gasped, a tinge of excitement flaring her words. “So far, it’s only been constellations! I got twenty points last Wednesday for knowing where Ursa Major and Ursa Minor are! I can’t believe we’ll get to look at planets!”

Thea’s mention of points approached her, struck her square in the chest. Snape’s voice, unwelcome, careened into the fray. _Forgive me for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions do not simply affect you_.

For Thea to be so excited over her success, it suddenly seemed all the more disgusting that Cleo’s indiscretion had erased it all. God. _God_.

“... You okay?”

“What?”

“I mean, I get worked up over space too,” Thea joked, gentle.

She hadn’t noticed until it was pointed out. A faint heat emanated from her eyes, punctuated by a sting that didn’t register until Cleo blinked. She was quick to swipe her forearm over her face. “No, no,” she dismissed. “It’s nothing. You’re fine.”

“Maybe you should read your letter,” Thea suggested. “I know hearing from my friends and family always makes me happy.”

Her lips twitched into a quick smile before she said: “Maybe later.”

“Why not now?”

Plenty of reasons. None that seemed worthwhile to share. Not without running the risk of sounding ridiculous. Cleo remained silent and shoveled a spoonful of cold oatmeal in her mouth.

The conversation petered out uncomfortably, the two of them eating their food, until Thea piped up again a few minutes later, eager.

“So, uhm, who’s your friend?”

Cleo didn’t mean to sound as ashamed as she did when she said his name: “Caleb.”

“Oh. Is he a Muggle?”

Cleo shook her head. “No, he’s a wizard.”

Thea’s eyes squinted in confusion. “Then… wait -- why isn’t he here?”

Cleo glanced away from her, toward the ceiling again. “Because he graduated last year.”

“Oh.”

“Mm.”

Another pause. Thea appeared as if she were working through her own suspicions. “It’s nice that he writes you.”

“Yeah,” Cleo sighed, noncommittal.

She observed as Thea’s body shifted, one side to the left, awkward and self conscious. “I’m sorry if I’m prying too much. It’s just--”

Cleo’s eyes closed. God. Fucking God. Fucking Christing God on a fucking crutch. She was the worst. The absolute fucking worst. Couldn’t even play polite and nice. Had to make a fucking eleven year old feel awful for trying to be friendly. For making an effort. For--

“No, Thea,” Cleo asserted, tender voice traveling across the table to grasp her. “You’re fine. I’m sorry. I’m in an odd mood, I think. It’s not you, I promise.”

“It’s okay to be sad,” the girl said quietly. “That’s what mum tells me. It’s okay to be sad. You don’t have to, you know, hide it.”

Cleo couldn’t help it; at that juncture, deflecting felt like the only comfortable thing to do. “Which mum?” she teased, tilting her head.

Thea rolled her eyes, albeit with a grin. “Mama Juno. She has a lot of good advice about being sad.”

“Does she?”

“It’s ‘cause she deals with it a lot,” Thea explained. “It’s her entire job.”

Cleo squinted. “What does she do?”

“She’s a mortician,” Thea told her with a tinge of pride that time, seemingly catching a second wind from Cleo’s previous lack of judgement.

“That’s unique.”

“Lots of things about my mums are unique,” Thea pointed out.

“I believe you.”

“What about yours?”

Cleo raised an eyebrow. “What, my parents?”

“Yeah,” Thea prompted.

“You sure you feel comfortable with that?”

She frowned, bemused. “Huh?”

“You’ve shared a lot already,” Cleo reminded her. “I want to make sure you feel okay with it.”

“Oh.” The girl’s head lowered a bit, mouth twisting, pensive. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“We don’t have to say anything else.”

There appeared to be a deliberation that passed over the girl’s expression before her posture straightened, gaze growing more determined, confident. “We’re the same,” she announced, clearly on the tail end of some conclusion. “So I just, you know, felt safe.”

The hint of a smile wormed its way across Cleo’s lips, before inching away into neutrality. “This will all just stay here with me, I promise.”

“I know,” Thea said, before she gazed at Cleo, expectant. “So…?”

“Well,” Cleo started with a sharp exhale. “My Dad’s a midwife, and my mum…” Sure was… a whole lot of things. “... well, she’s a stay at home mother. But there’s lots of things she likes to do.”

“Like what?” Thea asked, fishing in the bowl for yet another clementine, not long after she’d polished off the first.

“Painting, gardening, meditating,” Cleo listed, before letting out a short laugh. “Protesting.”

“My mums do that too,” Thea said, frowning as a bit of juice squirted from the fruit after she’d dug too deep with her fingers. With an ineloquent duck of her head, she licked the lines that bisected her wrists, before adding: “I don’t know a lot about it. They say I’m too young. But they do a lot of marching. And they let me help them make their signs. Mama Carol says it’s good to be… engaged.”

“She’s right.”

“Do you protest with your mum?”

“Sometimes,” was Cleo’s nonchalant, unhelpful answer.

Thea picked up the slack from Cleo’s clipped speech. “I wish I could go with my mums,” she admitted. “It feels bad, sometimes, because they always seem to be fighting against something. I hate seeing them do it on their own. I want to help.”

Cleo’s chest felt weighted by something she couldn’t describe and her response poured from her, drunk on its confidence: “You do enough.”

Thea’s laugh was skeptical. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Yeah, well,” Thea sighed, “It makes me frustrated. I want to fight too.”

“You’re too young to be fighting.”

“Sometimes we don’t get that choice,” Thea countered, a bit put off. “I’m not a baby.”

Cleo’s frown grew more prominent. “I wasn’t trying to say you were.”

“It’s just not fair,” she complained, “sometimes Mama Carol cries over the fact she can’t adopt me, because it’s not allowed. They already can’t get married. And it makes me mad. I hate that they make her cry.”

Cleo’s fingers tightened around her bowl of oatmeal. What could she possibly argue, in that instance?

“Can I ask you something?”

Strangely wary, Cleo answered, “What is it?”

Thea hesitated, her eyes seeming to focus on Cleo’s face oddly.

“What?”

“Just--” Thea began, apprehensive. “How old are you?”

Cleo’s laugh kicked out of her. “You’re nervous to ask me _that?_ ”

“I mean--”

“I’ll be twenty in two weeks.”

“Oh,” Thea mumbled. “So, you are older.”

A heat on the back of Cleo’s neck flared. “Yes I am.”

“So that means it’s true,” Thea concluded.

“What’s true?”

“You know,” Thea said in a lower register. “That you left.”

Cleo leaned back against her own anxiety, crowded in the air just at her shoulders. The room felt quieter. Which was ridiculous -- of course it wasn’t. The dull roar of surrounding voices hadn’t waned any deal, but in her ears they quieted against the accusation in Thea’s voice. The shift in atmosphere made it all the more easy for her to notice the slightest differences in her environment -- specifically, and for the first time, she noticed that down the table, Draco Malfoy was staring directly at them.

“I… did.” In her periphery, Malfoy’s gaze was dogged. Incessant.

“Why?”

Cleo tore her eyes away from the end of the table to look at Thea. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” Thea conceded. “I just wanted to hear it from you.”

“Hear it from me,” Cleo echoed, flat.

“I didn’t want to listen to rumors.”

“Rumors are fun,” Cleo uttered with levity, her hands going into her lap.

“What I mean is, you’re my friend,” Thea explained, sitting up straighter, “and I don’t think it’s fair to listen to rumors about something like that.”

Cleo’s insides broke into a faint warmth. Friend. Well-- “What did you hear?”

“Nothing concrete,” Thea assured her. “Just… something about a Gryffindor you used to know.”

She hated how the recognition settled next to her: Overly familiar, oblivious to how unwelcome it was, fancying itself an old friend. It made it all the more difficult to not express her frustration, but Cleo managed.

“It did involve him, yes.”

Thea leaned forward, urgent. “Wait, it did?”

“Yes.”

“But… then, what happened?” Thea’s expression softened. “It… it wasn’t like defense class, was it?”

What, she’d heard about that too?

Well, no, of course she had. Losing all of Slytherin’s house points wasn’t going to remain a secret. But the fact that Thea’s mind had lept to Cleo’s public display of rage made her insides twist uncomfortably. Was that what everyone thought of her?

After a moment of reflection, she leaned forward, her eyes sneaking back to the end of the Slytherin table once more. Malfoy was still turned in their direction. She forced herself to look at Thea again.

“It wasn’t like that,” Cleo promised her. “It’s just, when I was seventeen, I met Benjamin and--”

“Miss Croft.”

\-- and that was the end of that. The soft squeak of wheels arrived alongside Professor Tenenbaum’s interruption and Cleo looked to her, apprehensive.

“Good morning, Professor,” she wheedled the greeting from her collecting anxiety in some vain attempt to make it productive.

Professor Tenenbaum didn’t seem all that interested in pleasantries. “I received your timetable from Professor Snape,” she disclosed.

“I see.”

“You have a two hour block of free time before your N.E.W.T. Divination class at nine thirty,” the Professor replied dully, her papery cheek resting in the cleft of her palm. “I figured that would be an appropriate time to schedule your detentions, yes?”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

Her eyes lit up, voice lilting with a sardonic response: “Well, so long as you don’t have a problem with it.”

Cleo flinched. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that--”

“I’ll expect you soon, Miss Croft. We’ll be meeting at the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest today. Please don’t run late.”

That meant “come now,” more than anything else. Cleo understood that implicitly.

Though, as the professor began to wheel herself away, she stopped briefly to flash a brilliant smile at Thea. “Miss Waters. How is your _Fumos_ coming along?”

“Better,” Thea answered, her eyes volleying between Cleo and the professor. However, in some lapse of hesitation, the girl’s lips folded into a smile. “It looks more like fog than just cloud now.”

“Very good,” the woman praised. “Keep practicing. I’d like you to show me when we do practicals tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.”

There was a rapid shift in her demeanor when Professor Tenenbaum glanced to Cleo once more -- put off, but with a begrudging sense of beckoning to it.

Cleo about caved in on herself, but remained stalwart, watching as the woman’s purple wheelchair did an about face and headed toward the exit of the Great Hall. Her breath all but beat itself out of her.

“Cleo?” Thea prompted.

“I should go,” Cleo stated, beginning to stand, attention glued to the teacher’s slowly fading silhouette.

“Okay.”

Cleo’s head drifted back to look down at the first year and, with a half-weary smile, she promised: “I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

Whatever vague disappointment existed in the girl’s posture evaporated from her as she sat up taller, smiling once more. “Okay!”

It was only when Cleo began to gather her things that she chanced another look at the other end of the Slytherin table. Draco was busy chatting away with a portly boy across from him, and an odd sense of relief washed over her. An exaggeration again. He likely hadn’t been watching at all.

She’d slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away when she heard Thea’s voice again. “Wait, Cleo?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, frowning over her shoulder. “What?”

Thea casually placed her fingers on the edge of the parchment laid abandoned on the table, pushing it toward her. “You almost forgot your letter.”

“Oh.” Almost. A near miss. If only.

There was a weighty gait to her steps when she returned to retrieve the letter, and she folded it sloppily before stuffing it into her pocket.

“Have fun at detention,” Thea sang to her, attention focused on breakfast once more.  


 

The professor had arrived long before Cleo had the chance to. When Cleo passed the edge of the grounds, the first thing she spotted was Professor Tenenbaum tutting over a largeish tree at the center of a clearing -- quite an uncommon sight within the confines of the cluttered forest.

Her presence was greeted with a prompt order hastily flung from the end of an arm proffered toward her: “Give me those shears.”

Casting her eyes about, Cleo obediently fetched the tool from off a nearby, obviously conjured, table. They were snatched from her hands with a clipped _thanks_ and Cleo took a step back, eyeing the foliage again.

The woman hacked off one of the branches; it was shrivelled and charred, more like a raisin than part of a tree. There was an inordinate portion of time where the professor seemed to ignore her outright, and Cleo steeped herself in the silence, off kilter, observing as the woman continued to mutilate the tree with every snap of her shears.

A compulsion came at the apex of this horrendous in-between, an impulse to fill the silence, if only to diminish the discomfort that was beginning to gorge itself on the quiet the longer the two of them stood there.

Hands clasped behind her back, she revealed herself with a loud breath, before reciting: “Professor Tenenbaum, I just wanted, first of all, to tell you how sorry I am about how I acted--”

“My, you really don’t listen, do you?” Professor Tenenbaum mused aloud, still focused on the tree.

Winded, Cleo faltered. “I--”

“Besides,” the woman said, regarding a particular area of bark that held her attention rapt, “as I’ve said, sorry doesn’t mean anything.”

All Cleo could muster was a bewildered, blundering: “Then, what could I possibly do to make up for--”

“You’ll do as you’re told, perhaps?” the woman suggested.

“I was horrified,” Cleo prefaced, taking a step closer. “If it’s a matter of sincerity, I can promise you that I _do_ feel awful about it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Professor Tenenbaum remarked. “That’s not in question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s really rather simple, Miss Croft,” the Professor assured her, finally deigning to glance in her direction. “I don’t respect people who don’t respect me.”

“I do--”

“You most certainly do not,” the woman interjected with a wry chuckle. “And it doesn’t exactly matter to me, either. You don’t survive in the real world being concerned with how much everyone you meets likes you. I know you’d rather kiss a Banshee than be in my class. That was apparent from the moment you arrived. So, to be frank, Miss Croft, the bottom line is that if you aren’t interested in learning, then I’m not all that interested in teaching you.”

As if some pretense had been dropped, Cleo’s posture drooped and she asked, dejected: “If that’s the case, then why the scene?”

“Because most of the time, when people can’t make themselves give a toss about a class, they keep to themselves, not sabotage lessons. By all means, be as incompetent as you’d like. Skive off, if it pleases you. But I won’t abide by disruptions. Everyone else is there to _learn_ and when I have to halt everything to deal with _you_ , it means that _everyone else_ is adversely affected. It takes away from their time to learn. That’s not fair, is it?”

She didn’t know what bothered her more: the fact that this very same sentiment had a habit of being thrown into her face as of late, or the fact that a modicum of truth laid within it and she didn’t have the fucking strength to deal with it right now.

“No,” Cleo answered after a pause. “It’s not.”

“Well, there you go,” Professor Tenenbaum returned, breezy. “You aren’t a lost cause after all.”

“You’re wrong, though.”

That caught the woman’s attention. Her wheelchair shifted in its hover to face Cleo as the woman’s head canted. “Am I?”

“I don’t hate your class,” Cleo explained. “I wouldn’t have taken it had I not been pressured, no, but I’ve never had any intention of disrupting anything. You’re a good teacher and, even though you’ve made it clear that you hate me saying this, I’m sorry if my lack of enthusiasm communicated any sense of disrespect. I don’t think your class is a waste of time.”

The lack of reaction in the professor’s expression was unsettling. Her affect was completely flat, unmoved, as if she hadn’t heard what Cleo had said at all. Or didn’t care what she had said. Either way, she tried to push on.

“The work intimidates me,” she confessed. “I have… more weaknesses than I can count with regard to defense. To have that on display in a group setting, it’s-- it’s frightening for me, Professor. I don’t deal well with humiliation, as you saw. But I’m willing to do what I can to make up for it. I didn’t mean for my own hang ups to have the consequence of taking away from everyone else’s chance to learn.”

Expression ever stony, Professor Tenenbaum’s eyes raked over her. Maybe in consideration. Maybe in derision. Maybe both. She couldn’t tell at this point, and the efforts she was making appeared to be backfiring. However, after a moment, something shifted in the woman’s countenance. Or, well, more accurately, she glanced from Cleo to the tree, her posture in her wheelchair growing relaxed.

“You’ll be helping me set wards for tomorrow’s lesson,” she announced, turning toward the forest. “What do you know of limnal boundaries?”

“Do you mean liminal?”

A scoff blurted from the woman’s mouth. “I’m not in the habit of misspeaking, no. I mean _limnal_. I’ll take your confusion as an utter lack of understanding of the subject?”

“That’d be safe.”

That, above all else, had drawn the first genuine reaction from the professor: She laughed. It was a raspy, rumbling sort of noise that bubbled deep in her chest. “It’s rather simple,” she prefaced, rapping her knuckles on the tree beside her. “In here is a nasty creature which I would rather not inflict on the world at large. I want to make sure it cannot leave this clearing. So, how do you suppose we keep that from happening?”

“Drawing a boundary it cannot pass.”

“Exactly,” she acknowledged. “We define a section of space, and we use that to direct the flow of magic. You following so far?”

Cleo’s head bobbed slightly as she stepped forward. “So you delineate where you want the boundary to be, and you use the flow of magic to enforce it. Right?”

“In a sense. That ‘flow of magic’ we are talking about is what wizards call wards,” the professor said, waving her wand in a lazy curlicue. “They’re magical instructions placed on a limnal boundary, allowing it to do its work.”

Cleo chewed the inside of her cheek momentarily before asking: “How do you… I don’t know, specify the instructions? It can’t just be a magical word, can it?”

Professor Tenenbaum rolled back a short distance in air, gesturing toward the edge of the clearing. “When the boundary is drawn, it is connected to what is called a ‘foundational object’. That object -- whatever it is -- essentially acts as a proxy for the entire area you defined. So, when you attach spells to it, they are distributed across the whole space.”

“So it’s not a single spell, but a network of spells.”

The woman performed a waffling shrug, her head bouncing side to side as she considered. “Eh, sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. That all depends on what you’re trying to accomplish. Something like an Anti-Apparition Ward tends to run on the more complicated side, whereas a Caterwauling Ward is about as simple as it gets.”

“So… how complicated did you want this ward to be?”

“I intend to spice it up a bit, but it’s important to start simple. First, set the boundary. Second, attach the foundation object. _Third_ \-- and this is crucial -- lay down your ward parameters _before_ you place the ward. Fourth, establish the obstruction spell which will keep the creature trapped inside. See? Simple.”

Yeah. Simple. Sure.

There was an unexpected shout which wafted toward them from the edge of the clearing. “Oi Bridge, we alright to cross?” Ren was standing beneath the canopy of trees, accompanied by none other than Harry Potter, who was shuffling his feet and looking around curiously.

“The hell do you think?” Professor Tenenbaum called back, distracted.

The man made his way toward them, not appearing perturbed by her tone. As he drew near, Cleo could see that his look was as eclectic as it usually was: His skin was tinged purple, and red, downy feathers peppered his body. Long hair askew, and strawberry blonde today she noticed, he walked with a lumbering gait, likely due to the long rat’s tail which trailed along behind him. Despite the colorful array, Ren was attired very plainly, his hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized, dark denim jacket. Crossing in front of Professor Tenenbaum, he completed a leisurely twirl.

“How do you like my look?” he questioned with a theatrical vamp, ruined by the fact he nearly tripped over the tail.

“Garish and hideous, as always,” Professor Tenenbaum volleyed back, though in a tone that Cleo caught as distinctly and oddly… loving.

Ren shrugged, his smirk unwavering. “Ah, well. Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Potter, hovering at the outskirts of their small circle, cleared his throat. “Er, you asked for me, Professor?”

Everything about Professor Tenenbaum brightened a considerable deal when she addressed Potter, the shift so jarring that it was difficult not to gawp. “Harry, good. Would you come with me a moment? I wanted to speak with you on a matter.”

The boy acquiesced readily enough. Ren pivoted to watch them go, but then he abruptly turned around to point a finger in her direction. “Oh! Cleo!” he exclaimed as if he'd only just noticed she was there. “Been meaning to talk to you.”

 _That_ sounded unsettlingly conspiratorial. “Have you?”

“Yes!” he declared, triumphant. “And wouldn’t you know it, we’ve got ourselves the perfect opportunity.”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Did you know that when I attended this _noble_ institution,” this was said with a tinge of mockery, “I was a Gryffindor?”

“Imagine that.”

“A tragically typical one, I might add,” he lamented. Though, considering his current appearance, that was a bit hard to believe. “But still, I heard about what happened in class yesterday.”

“I would hazard a guess that everyone has at this point,” she pointed out, subdued.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of!” Ren argued, jovial. “Hell, I've had it out with Bridge before too; she's… herself.”

Well, he was perhaps the first person to share that sentiment. She couldn't say if that was a comfort or not. “Yes, well, in the end, you're not exactly the person she thinks is an unhinged, disrespectful idiot are you?”

The man squinted at her, feathers rumpling as he shrugged. “I like to consider myself the de facto expert on ‘what Bridgette Tenenbaum would think’, and I can _definitively_ confirm she thinks none of those things,” he pointed out. “Look, she's not concerned about this or that thing that you've said. She's been called worse, believe me. Bridge doesn't put any stock in words.”

Well, that was already apparent. Cleo didn't say anything, though -- just observed as he waffled through his next statement.

“You're only… Eh… Okay, here's the thing: her temper is extra foul with people like you.”

“People like me,” she repeated in a low murmur.

“The smart ones,” he clarified, earnest. “The ones who could be leaps and bounds ahead, if only they took a step forward.”

“I think you're both overestimating my capabilities,” she put in tiredly.

Ren grinned at her. “Nah, she's trained up loads of rookies in her day, and she's _never_ wrong about the potential of her students. And me? My approach is much less logical.”

She was sensing a pattern here. Ren appealed to flattery, to over inflate her abilities. Professor Tenenbaum, however, appealed to her guilt. She noticed she preferred the professor's method better. At least it was honest. At least it was willing to call her out on her bullshit.

“Your approach?”

“Well, I guess I’d call it more of a philosophy,” he mused, tapping a finger on his chin. “I believe that everyone can accomplish great and previously-impossible feats, but we place limits on ourselves which determine our lot in life.

“That's why I’m a below-average oddball,” he informed her brightly, his grin growing larger. “It's my dream come true. You though? I don't think you're the same.”

She had a hard time believing he could divine much of what she wanted, much less what sort of ambitions she had. “You don’t, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ren said, stuffing his hands in both pockets once more, “otherwise, you wouldn't have come back.”

“Jesus,” she expelled all of a sudden, her first break in composure. “How many of you people know about that?”

The man before her raised both eyebrows, hands burrowing into his jacket pockets. Then, his mirth bubbled over and he threw his head back in a full laugh. “Well, what did you expect? I'm an assistant to your teacher!”

She wasn't certain what that had to do with anything, but she didn't really want to know either, lest she be privy to some meeting Dumbledore called to discuss her private matters. Scowling, she turned away, her eyes catching on the image of Potter and the professor speaking, not that far away. She didn't appear happy. Fantastic. Just what she needed before detention commenced.

“If you knew a thing about it,” Cleo grumbled, “you'd realize coming back was a stupid idea.”

Ren sobered, shifting his weight with another shrug. “I don't know,” he remarked, following her gaze toward the other pair. “Maybe you're right. But in my experience, it's the stupid ideas that yield the best results.”

He looked in her direction, smile returning. “Tell you what, I'll do you one better in the ideas department.”

Cleo looked at him, her mouth ready on a response. However, just then, she caught the frayed edges of Professor Tenenbaum’s voice.

“You're sure you won't reconsider?” she cajoled, and Cleo could hear a sharp clack as she dropped her head against the back of her wheelchair.

Potter scratched the side of his head, bashful. “Sorry, Professor.”

The woman let out a soft, dissatisfied hum. Ren lifted his hands from his pockets and clapped them together, the singular sound booming in the quiet clearing.

“All done, then?” he raised his voice toward the other two.

“That appears to be the case, yes,” the professor murmured, the wind stolen from her sails.

“I've just had the most brilliant idea in the known world. Do you want to hear it?” Ren prompted, jauntily rolling back on his heels.

All three of them didn’t answer. None of them looked at him, either. Cleo’s eyes faced the floor. Potter still seemed abashed. Professor Tenenbaum had all the look of dread about her.

Undeterred, Ren continued as if he’d received an enthusiastic response. “Not to worry, I won’t keep you all in suspense for too long.” There was a note of irony in his tone, borne of self-awareness, no doubt. “In my humble opinion, the lively Miss Cleo requires a tutor. And what have we here, but a diligent student with an apparent knack for instruction?”

Cleo’s head snapped in Ren’s direction, a sharp “ _What?_ ” escaping her; it only took her seconds to notice the distinct deeper undertone, as Potter had blurted out the same sentiment as well.

“Uh--!” Potter looked to be casting about for something to say, though his alarm was apparent. “I mean, I don’t really think I’m the best choice--”

“Nonsense!” Ren exclaimed, before he let out a short laugh. “Oh no, I sound like my mother.”

Potter pressed forward through the aside. “I've just finished telling the Professor that my schedule isn’t really suitable for more extracurriculars…”

“It’s an imposition,” Cleo argued, flustered. “I’m not comfortable demanding time out of some kid’s schedule for my own benefit--”

Harry grimaced. “Some kid? I'm right here, you know...”

“Cleo, Harry, let me be clear,” Ren said, placing down a calming hand in each of their directions. “It wouldn't be permanent, or take up too much time. Even if all you did was meet once a week, I think you both could benefit.”

He addressed Cleo squarely, then. “Honestly? Without tutoring, you’re going to have a bad time. This course hit the ground running from day one, and now you've got to catch up. But there's no reason you couldn't be at the same level as the rest of the class by Christmas if you had extra help.”

“I told you,” she stressed, “I’m not comfortable imposing on anyone.” _I’ve been selfish enough already._

With that, he rounded on Potter. “Can you spare an hour or two for an acquaintance in need?”

“Don’t pressure him,” Cleo warned, her arms crossing taut over her chest.

Potter frowned, looking between the two before casting his eyes to the professor as if to appeal for help. “I… don't know,” he ventured, uncomfortable.

“It’s fine, Potter,” Cleo assured him, clearly on edge. “I’m not your responsibility.”

Ren commented, “If you aren't available, we can always find someone else.”

“It’s…” Potter’s deliberation lasted a mere moment. “Alright, fine, I'll do it.”

“ _No_.”

Cleo’s interjection went unnoticed. Ren clapped his hands together once more, as if to put an end to the matter. “We're in agreement, then,” he concluded, a lilt in his voice. “All we need is the approval of the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot over here.”

Professor Tenenbaum, who had taken a reclined position in her wheelchair, leaned forward only to smirk, as her hand went to scratch the rough stump that made up her left leg. “It’s up to Harry,” she commented, blithe. “Though, I would hope that it-- ah, ignites some spark of passion he once retained for tutoring.”

The boy tried to wrestle his face into a half-smile, but didn’t really pull it off. “I said I can do it. I have some time after Charms.”

“Potter.”

He _finally_ looked at her. “What?”

Cleo stopped and watched him; there was nothing in his expression that gave him away, nor any indication of how he felt. With a frown, she glanced up toward the sky above her and sighed. “I’ll be in the library this afternoon,” she told him. “If you _actually_ want to do this, you can declare your intentions then and there. After you’ve actually _thought_ about it. Sound fair?”

The boy shuffled his feet, but held her stare. “Sure,” was his neutral reply, carried on the back of a shrug.

Her gaze drifted and landed on Professor Tenenbaum, frame still wound tight. “We should start on the wards,” she indicated, trying not to sound gloomy. “It’s a wonder your little creature has remained in the tree for this long.”

 

Charms had droned on for longer than she preferred, and she’d spent the greater portion of it avoiding Potter. She didn’t know what Ren was thinking, requesting such a thing -- on her behalf, no less. How could Potter say no under that kind of pressure? How was that fair? The whole sorry situation wouldn’t exist if he’d been able to say no. She didn’t need tutoring, anyway. Perhaps it would’ve been helpful, but she could manage on her own. She always had.

There was no better place to start on that, really, than in the library. Her steps were heavy; Cal’s letter was still burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe if it actually _did_ , she mused, she’d never have to read it.

There wasn’t any use dwelling on it. It was just going to make the entire day more unbearable and after what felt like an endless series of unfortunate events, she just… wanted to make all this productive. It hardly mattered if her heart didn’t feel in it.

Hogwarts’s library was perhaps one of the more sizable ones she’d ever encountered, which was a feat in and of itself. Her father was a veritable connoisseur of libraries; there wasn’t one within a hundred kilometers of her hometown that he hadn’t visited. From the time she was young, a weekly stop to libraries had become a regular part of their routine, along with bedtime storytelling. Of course, her nightly stories didn’t always include princesses and talking animals. Her father frequently dazzled her with tales of science and medicine -- a way to incentivize himself to study when he ended up specializing in midwifery, she’d discovered much later.

Even if she hadn’t understood most of what he was saying, it was the soothing baritone of his voice that she enjoyed most of all. Her eyes began to close, attempting to remember the sound, and she had to stop herself.

_No._

Why did she continue to reminisce like this when all it did was make her more and more homesick?

School. Focus on _school_.

As she navigated her way through, she noticed the Defense section of the library was noticeably more sparse than the rest; it seemed likely that a great deal of it had been gouged out and placed in the Restricted Section. Most of what remained were textbooks for lower years, encyclopedias, a few complex books of theory, and historical texts about famous dark creatures and those who discovered them -- including, inexplicably, a few books by Gilderoy Lockhart. Cleo took hold of several tomes, stacking them up in her arms. Many of the “historical” ones had the look of narratives, but it couldn’t hurt to check; after all, Ren had made it quite clear that she was failing Defense. If there was anything that could help her here, she would take it.

By the time she made it to her favorite table, she’d gathered a sizable heap. Initially endeavoring to carry it all herself, she ended up settling for making them float along behind her when they’d threatened to topple more than once.

She was careful to settle them noiselessly, lest she disturb the others seated and studying, but an abrupt, scornful laugh clanged from her left, followed by the scraping of a chair. “Ah-- girls, it’s well past time to go.”

Cleo glanced up at the sudden sound, regretting it immediately. A band of five Slytherin girls were clustered by a neighboring table. One of them was staring directly at her -- the one who had spoken. Striking blue eyes, auburn hair braided into a loose ponytail atop her head, and strikingly lavish accoutrements completed her affluent presentation. She was possessed of an acutely dignified bearing the other girls lacked, with a calculating glare to match. The girl stood, the movement so poised and elegant that she could be mistaken for royalty. Her followers mirrored her action a mere few seconds later, like afterimages.

A wispy girl standing beside her prodded her arm. “Aw, Ann! Do we have to? Flora was just getting to the good part!”

“Yes,” the first girl, Ann presumably, countered with a significant glance at Cleo. “I don’t care much for the air in here anymore.” Four pairs of eyes turned against her.

“Oh,” one of the others sighed. This girl was familiar: Jane Atwater. From her Herbology class. They locked eyes, only broken when Jane glanced away, turning her back.

“ _Right_ then,” Ann scoffed, “we’re off.”

With a haughty toss of her ponytail, she left, her posse trailing behind her. Cleo caught Jane dawdling for a moment, the girl’s lips flashing an apologetic frown in her direction before bursting into a trot to catch up with her friends.

Sighing, Cleo turned her gaze back to her books. It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. _Focus_.

In the end, this was easier said than done. Her attention drifted in between dry sentences describing the magical creature she had decided to look up. As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum had trapped what was called a  _Leshy_ to be used for the next day’s lesson. And from what she gleaned from the anthology, they were slavic magical creatures. Guardians of the forest. Not necessarily malevolent in and of themselves, but dangerous still, if caught in a bad enough mood. They were known for things like kidnapping children, luring travelers astray, blah… _blah_ …

Studying had never been this difficult before. The words intertwined with one another; her own thoughts lanced amidst the sentences she read, disrupting. By the time she’d attempted to read the same sentence for the fifth time and yet _still_ hadn’t retained what it said, she knew this entire thing was a wash. The book held her as she dipped forward, pressing her forehead against its spine.

Giving up wasn’t really an option, as alluring as the prospect seemed. This was supposed to be productive. She didn’t want to sulk.

Her robes felt uncomfortable, lopsided, favoring her left pocket. It didn’t matter how many times she adjusted herself -- the same agitation would rear its ugly head once again, careening its way to the forefront of her mind. The letter. It wanted to be read. She fucking knew that. But she couldn’t right now.

A jolt of heat and pressure surged through her spine and, with a scowl, she slammed her book shut. The sound bloomed out from the epicenter of where she sat and she noticed, much to her chagrin, a few heads were raised to look at her. She offered a meek, contrite smile in supplication, and watched as each face dropped back into study.

Cleo’s eyes slammed shut and she grit her teeth.

 _Control yourself_.

Her arm reached to grab and pull another book from the pile, not caring to know what it was. She cracked the spine open against her lap and forced herself to begin reading again. _An Assorted History On Dueling._

A numbness took hold of her and she struggled through the first few pages of the text for what felt like forever until she noticed something beside her: Fingers taking hold of one of the books on her table, just barely in her line of sight. Reflexively, she shot out a hand in a quick, deterring motion.

“Sorry, I’m using that--” She stopped short, arm cancelling its path, and her breath caught roughly in her throat.

Professor Snape stood beside the table, his expression neutral aside from a single quirked eyebrow. “Using that term rather loosely, aren’t we?”

It would be just her luck to run into him now, wouldn’t it? She still felt inordinately wounded from their last run-in. She didn’t think she could survive another one. “Not really,” she returned, a touch defensive.

The man didn’t immediately reply, simply glancing about the table in front of her with a considering air before returning his gaze to her. “You haven’t turned a page in at least ten minutes.”

She stared at him, bewildered. “Have you been watching me for ten minutes?”

“If by ‘watching’ you mean ‘noticing your haphazard arrangement of books due to the fact that you are currently holding one that I require hostage’, then yes.”

“Hostage,” she repeated, deadpan.

“Yes,” was his equally unenthused rejoinder. “Seeing as you aren’t actually ‘using’ it at present.”

“I was going to get into it after this chapter,” she protested.

“You have particular interest in limnal boundaries and ward foundations?”

“I have a particular interest in doing an essay on them for extra credit,” she told him.

He squinted at her, his expression odd in such a way that Cleo suspected that the phrase “extra credit” was either repulsive or utterly unfamiliar to him. The professor commented, “For someone so apparently struggling with Defense concepts, you seem quite keen to jump ahead of your curriculum.”

“As I remember, you suggested I do so.”

“I must confess to some lingering skepticism regarding your compliance.”

She frowned. “I’ve taken your advice plenty of times.”

Both eyebrows rose at that pronouncement. “You don’t say,” he intoned.

It was difficult to not take his bait. But being antagonistic wouldn’t help matters, not where he was concerned, at least. She frowned at him before looking back down at the book in front of her. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

The man shifted in her periphery. “I expect Professor Tenenbaum has already contacted you to schedule your detentions?” he changed the subject.

“This morning,” she replied.

“And I expect I will never have to hear from her again.” There was a clear warning in his tone.

Her reaction was stark: She turned toward him in earnest, gaze catching his, firm. “You won’t.”

His attention held fast, but only for the span of a moment before it fell away toward her array of texts on the table. “We shall see,” he remarked, a doubtful murmur.

“You won’t,” she mumbled again, returning to her text. “She’s all excited, anyway, now that Potter’s been guilted into possibly tutoring me.”

There was no reply, though the man remained in place.

In that expanse of silence, she could feel the weightiness of his gaze boring into her. Expectant. It took her a second but, with a sigh, she grasped the book beside her before holding it in his direction, her eyes still focused on the open chapter waiting in her lap. “Here.”

There was a short pause before her arm was unburdened. Professor Snape performed a quick flourish, twisting the book beneath his arm. In the corner of her eye, she could see it resting at his side. Then, his voice drifted down to her, “Five points to Slytherin.”

Her head snapped in his direction, gobsmacked. It didn’t take long for the shock to radiate into a pleasant sense of humor, but she was careful not to laugh. Typical Snape. Gall enough to hand out points for something so trivial, but reserved enough not to go overboard.

Her lips twisted into a smile before she took the chance to joke: “Need any other books?”

It was possible she’d imagined it, but his expression seemed to twitch, a momentary uptick in the muscles of his face. Then, within the space of a blink, it was gone. “Not today,” he remarked.

“Fair enough.”

It would have ended there. It probably _should_ have ended there. But the levity in the conversation, imagined or not, bolstered her to some degree.

She hesitated, albeit briefly, before turning toward him in her chair. “Professor Snape?”

A raised eyebrow and a toneless hum signaled his attention.

“About my proposal--”

“Not now, Miss Croft,” he cut her off. The stern words struck a harsh contrast against his prior tone.

“Not now,” she repeated, pushing her luck further. “So that means there will be a later?”

He slanted her a disapproving look. “I have yet to be sufficiently convinced that it is worth my time.”

That statement stung more than it ought have. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t--”

“I have business of actual import to attend to,” the professor interrupted her, already pivoting away. “Good afternoon, Miss Croft.”

“But--”

By the time that pathetic word limped its way out of her mouth, he was halfway across the library.

 

She waited for almost an hour before Potter arrived. It was hard to say if she was apprehensive or relieved to spot his head of unruly hair amongst the bookshelves.

That all depended on his answer, she supposed.

He checked out a book, glancing over his shoulder as if he was establishing an alibi to be there in the library with her. She put her gaze on the book in her lap as he turned in her direction.

The kid didn't wait around. His trajectory to her table was direct -- as was his greeting. “Hey.”

She didn’t look up. “Hey.”

Potter radiated a sort of manic energy; the boy couldn’t keep still. His index finger tapped relentlessly atop the book in his hands, but she could feel his intent gaze on the side of her face.

Clearly growing impatient with the quiet, he addressed her with whiplike intensity. “So. Here we are.”

 _That_ , of all things, made her look up at him. He appeared… something. She couldn’t quite place it. However, there was an odd _determination_ to him. “I’d say that’s accurate, yes.”

Potter pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, plopping himself down and staring at her. “Alright. No need to pretend to be polite, now that there’s no teachers around.”

“What?” she bumbled, eyes trained in a squint.

He pursed his lips. “You’re the one who wanted to meet here.”

“So you could tell me whether or not you wanted to actually tutor me,” she reiterated. “Are you here to tell me no, then?”

Potter’s frown was pronounced. “What, you’re saying you actually want to be tutored by me?” he questioned, disbelieving. “That’s a laugh.”

“I only want you to tutor me if it’s something you want to do,” she clarified, uneasy. “If you don’t, you’re free to just tell me no.”

“You do actually know who I am, right?”

“I’d say it’s very difficult to not know who you are.”

“Right,” was his flat response. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I’ll agree to tutor you if you answer some questions.”

Angle…?

“Okay…?” she agreed, leaning back into her chair.

“Tell me what you know about what Malfoy’s up to.”

“Why in the world would I know what Malfoy is up to?” she asked, incredulous.

The impatient tapping of his finger resurged, this time thumping at the wooden edge of his armrest. “You’re in his House, aren’t you?”

“I’m in his House, thus I know everything about him?” she challenged.

“ _No_ ,” Potter shot back. “But I saw him talking to you yesterday. I want to know why.”

“Why do you think?” she snapped, growing irritated. “He throws his weight around. It’s all he does now.”

“He’s already done more than that,” he countered. “And I don’t intend to let him continue.”

“You alone, huh?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You see anyone else doing anything about this?”

Maybe she was letting her anger get the best of her now, but she couldn’t help the irate remark that shoved itself from her: “No, Potter, you’re literally the _only_ person in this entire school who has the foresight and the moxie to stand up to a little prick like Malfoy.”

“ _Obviously_ I am, since he’s still swanning off to do whatever the hell he wants,” Potter said, his dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.

“Obviously you are,” she repeated, livid, as she went to lay her book back onto the table.

“I don’t really care what you think about it,” he told her, matter-of-fact. “Witnessed one too many of Malfoy’s dark-corner-meetings to just let it go.”

With a furrowed brow, she leaned forward. “Ah, I see. Two Slytherins being in proximity to each other is grounds for conspiracy, huh?”

“Yeah, it is. Especially when he’s targeting Muggleborns,” Potter shot back. “A fact you don’t seem to care about.”

God, this kid.

“No, wouldn’t be of any interest to me at all,” she seethed, acerbic.

“Right,” was his clipped retort. “So you’re not going to answer my questions, then.”

“I’m not being obtuse, Potter,” she barked. “There’s just nothing to say. If you think Malfoy and I are chatting it up in dark corners of the dungeon, then you don’t know much about me at all.”

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, a frustrated sigh escaped him. “How is it that Malfoy is such a public arsehole, but nobody knows anything about what he’s doing?”

“I imagine asking the wrong people doesn’t really help.”

Potter scowled at her. “I don’t need a lecture from the same girl who decided to kiss up to Snape at my expense,” he sneered. “Which is _exactly_ what Malfoy would do, I might add.”

“That’s what you think that was,” she noted, affect flat.

“I don’t know what I was expecting, really,” Potter remarked, caustic.

“I’m sorry--” she gasped, exasperated, practically throwing herself back in her seat. “Did I do something to piss you off? I don’t understand where this hostility is coming from.”

The boy stared at her as if she were insane. “I heard what you said to Professor Tenenbaum. We were all there. She’s the first good Defense teacher we’ve had since Professor Lupin, and you treat her like scum,” he told her, point-blank. “But, hm, fancy that, you’re right chummy with Snape, aren’t you?”

“You sure like to pretend you know more than you actually do,” she observed, scowling.

“You’re just as rotten as any other Slytherin,” Potter accused, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You’re just better at hiding it. Or _not_ , considering yesterday.”

“As if you’ve never acted out of turn in a classroom before,” she shot back, glowering.

“I’ve never screamed at a teacher just because I didn’t want to do a lesson!”

Engaging like this wasn’t worth it, was it? Absolutely not. How bloody mature could she call herself, sniping at him like this? Sure as hell didn’t make her look any better, did it?

“Okay, Potter,” she exhaled, using her arms against the table to rig herself into a stand. “Since you find me so revolting to be around, I won’t make you waste your time further, then.”

He watched her snatch her bag from the table, picking up his own book like it was a shield. “How considerate,” was his sarcastic goodbye.

Cleo left most of the books she had amassed, opting to just walk out of the situation. What else could she do? The air around her felt too oppressive for her to remain a second longer. It was too much -- all of it.

She needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Before this got worse.

 

There were few places within the confines of the castle where Cleo felt truly safe, but there was one spot, above all others, she returned to time and time again. She’d stumbled upon it in a panic her first year, after getting lost in the chaotic mess of Hogwarts’s stairwells. That one room in the castle felt familiar in a way no one had ever understood. She didn’t need them to, either. She just knew that when everything hurt, when everything became too much, whenever her desire to be _home_ had reached its most difficult to bear -- she came here. Unfailing.

The Divination classroom was empty aside from the smoky haze which regularly swirled about the space. The air smelled strongly of vanilla and patchouli -- unmistakable even before she’d ascended the ladder -- and every lamp was draped in gauzy fabrics of blue and green, imbuing the space with a distinctly underwater feel. As Cleo passed the rows of columns beside the dias where the professor’s armchair sat empty, she noticed that the curtains were drawn on the towering windows all around the octagonal classroom.

She stopped short of the crystal ball seated primly on the table at the front of the classroom, eyes planing around the curve of the glass. It was probably well enough that no one was here.

Her knees gave up on her and she plopped down with a harsh _smack_ on the stair step. Maybe a chair would have been nicer. Appropriate. But what the fuck did appropriate matter? What did nicer matter? Her entire body coalesced into an agonizing pressure that gave way to a throb. It was embarrassing, really, how hard her distress attempted to diffuse itself from her. It was a tension behind her eyelids trying to force its way outward. It was a strain in her throat attempting to spill between her lips. It was a strength in her midsection trying to compress her insides into what felt like a singularity. Her fingers clenched at the edge of the step. Her nose scrunched as her lips squeezed and tried to escape into her mouth -- anything to keep that little yelp that nestled itself at the back of her throat from having the pleasure of peeking out.

She wasn’t going to cry.

She wasn’t going to fucking cry.

What did Potter know? What did Snape know? What did Tenenbaum know? What did any of them know?

They were all with her there, hovering and onerous. She suddenly felt all too aware of her pocket.

She wasn’t angry but she didn’t want to cry. Her mind and body couldn’t agree. The body needed action and the mind made a staunch refusal. It left her in a cold and painful impasse, staring at the crystal ball as if it had any answers.

Her mind appeared to have come to a compromise that she wasn’t consciously aware of -- or maybe her muscles worked on impulse and memory alone. With no apparent avenue to channel her hurt, her hand wrenched the unwieldy letter from her pocket. Her fingers clasped the edges and the parchment let out a soft yelp as the first bit of it was torn.

Each scrap of paper fluttered to the ground and she waded in them as they pooled like blood around her ankles, bled from the victim she tore apart, piecemeal. It was disgusting, how utterly satisfying it felt. And when the corpse was nothing but a heap of mess that laid about her, broken, she wrapped her arms around her legs and choked on her breath.

Off to her left, a thick curtain of beads stirred, bringing with it a flurry of wooden clacks as hundreds of them bounced off each other. Professor Trelawney herself emerged into the room with all the buoyant energy of a leaf on the wind. Clad in a myriad of sashes and shawls, her attire seemed incomplete due to her lack of jewelry and her limp, pulled-back hair. The woman’s gaze alighted on Cleo, brightening with recognition before widening with confusion.

“Oh,” she gasped, her voice infused with curiosity. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this late.”

It was stupid. It really, really was.

Because that’s what this entire thing was, wasn’t it? A farce. Dramaturgy. Theatrics. Her barging in, unannounced, on the verge of what felt like the billionth crisis that week, and having the _nerve_ , the utter _nerve_ , to look at that woman and feel as if she were at home.

And even _that_ had the gall to hurt.

The tears, bloated and teetering at the corners of her eyes, were a direct defiance to the amount of ugly contortions her face did to keep them from plummeting. But there they were. There they were. Ridiculous. Absolutely bloody ridiculous.

There were so many things she wanted, too. So many things that were too bloody childish to reflect upon, much less list. She felt so guilty about the response and the shameful display she’d created that she immediately swiped the butt of her palm across her eyes, uttering a soft: “I’m so sorry, Professor.”

“Dear girl,” the woman uttered, grasping her shawls as her willowy form bent toward Cleo. “Whatever is there to be sorry for?”

Everything. Being a disappointment and failure. Being unhinged. Wanting to give up. Not being as tough as she needed to be. Being utterly selfish and self involved. Fucking forcing her emotional bullshit on someone who didn’t even ask for it.

Cleo blinked, her tears coming out in a crawl down her cheeks, as she replied, breathless: “I don’t know.”

Professor Trelawney approached with purposeful vigor, though her touch was overwhelmingly gentle as she cupped Cleo’s face in her hands.

Cleo’s eyes closed and she leaned into Trelawney’s palms. They were soft and lukewarm, the edges of her fingers hinging on the very back of her jaw. For a moment, she thought she could smell her mother’s juniper perfume and that, in a moment, she’d feel a forehead pressed against her own, as her mother had done a million times before when she caught Cleo crying.

 _“Close your eyes and focus on breathing. I’ll draw it out from you_.”

But there was nothing. Just a moment of consideration and thought, before the air was displaced with the force of Trelawney’s nod. “Wait here; I have just the thing!”

The loss of touch was jilting. So much so that she almost wanted to beg Trelawney to come back. She didn’t, though. Her eyes fluttered open and she watched as the woman’s form retreated through the beaded curtain once more before emerging with a gleaming silver kettle in hand. Placing it atop the table by her armchair, she returned to Cleo, ushering her to stand with fluttering hands. “Come, now. I haven’t got a fire, but you ought to sit somewhere more comfortable, hm?”

Maybe it was pathetic, but she waited until Trelawney’s hands gripped her upper arms to hoist herself into a stand, a few scraps of paper still clinging to her feet, accusing, and only barely managed to amble into the armchair the woman guided her to before being plopped down and abandoned again.

Abandoned.

The woman was only a foot away and she felt _abandoned_.

Jesus Christ.

Trelawney pulled a small box of matches from underneath one of her scarves, making several abortive tries at lighting one of them. When she finally managed it, she lit a small, raised burner directly beneath the kettle, the same that was used for potion making. Even so, it appeared that the water was already heated; she'd likely been preparing for an evening brew before Cleo had arrived.

Fetching a pair of teacups from nearby, Trelawney offered them up for Cleo’s consideration. “Which do you prefer?” was her earnest inquiry, spoken as if her choice was of great import.

They were both terrible and chintzy, which somehow _also_ managed to be nostalgic. God this was annoying. She sniffed, hard, before pointing to the one covered in violets.

It was placed in her hands with gravitas before the woman shifted her weight toward the tea kettle once more. “A nice cuppa ought to restore you, I should think,” Trelawney stated, placing a handful of tea leaves into the container with all the theatrical flourish of a Muggle magician.

Cleo’s fingernails drummed against the porcelain outside of her cup as she watched the tendrils of steam climb from the neck of the kettle.

“It was rude of me to blunder in like this,” she uttered, miserable.

The professor held up a forestalling hand. “Not at all, my dear. I should have been prepared for this, actually; my horoscope did mention that I would be visited by someone important to me.”

“Important to you?” she questioned, bracingly.

“You know, they say that the most significant aspect of divining the transmundane is how well you are paying attention,” the woman sighed. She pulled over a chair to sit beside Cleo, patting her on the arm. “How easy it is, to cloud the senses! It was quite careless of me.”

“I don’t understand,” Cleo admitted, bleary eyes drifting toward Trelawney.

“You look a mite peckish, dear,” the woman fretted, her eyes refocusing on Cleo. “I’ve some fairy cakes that would go well with your tea.”

There came another pitiful showing of emotion; the doting seemed incidental, but every detail clung to her like a reminder. Her tears were fresh again and she nodded, her words oozing out of her, syrupy and feeble. “I’d like that.”

“Lovely! Let me get those for you…”

The woman left once more in a whirl of scarves. When she returned, she carried a plate with her, saying, “You must be wondering why I'm not simply using magic. The truth is, I've been a victim of quite a few omens lately -- I nearly fainted straight away and cancelled my afternoon classes when I spotted four crows perched at my windowsill a week past!”

“What does that foretell?”

She grasped a fairy cake that she didn’t feel all that inclined to eat -- the attention was the satiating portion she’d been after -- and watched Trelawney with careful, curious eyes. How like her it was to indulge. Whether or not she believed in such things was immaterial -- it hadn’t ever been like that with her mother. She just liked listening. She liked how her mother would explain her tarot readings at length, or some vision she’d stumbled upon after meditation. It was comforting in a way that Cleo couldn’t explain, and hearing Trelawney elucidate in the same manner abated the homesickness, even if it was only a little.

“Four is a very unlucky number, you see,” Trelawney explained, a visible shiver going through her. “Normally, four crows are a portent of wealth, but I had just finished making a pot of tea, just like this one, and wouldn't you know it --” She dropped her voice to a grave whisper. “ _I accidentally left the lid off!_ ”

Cleo’s nod was a slow, confused dip. “I see.”

“That night, I began having a very strange dream.”

“Did you?”

“I was standing in a field of tall grass, just near the entrance to a forest, and it was terribly, _terribly_ dark,” the woman told her. “And I stood in the same spot for hours without even a drop of moonlight to comfort me when-- the dream simply ended! Nice as you please! I woke in a cold sweat, as dark forests in dreams are dreadful omens, you understand.”

Oddly, she did. That was one of the few useless bits of information you hung on to after… lord, three years of Divination?

Truth be told, there wasn’t a lot that _couldn’t_ be construed to be a bad omen. “I’m sure you’ve gone about making precautions,” Cleo prompted, voice mellow.

“Well of course,” Trelawney assured her. “I've a horseshoe just over my bed to ward off any evil spirits. And, as I've been sniffling for days I fear some illness has come for me, so I've been carrying acorns in my pocket and hiding them about the classroom…”

“Then I’m sure you’ll be safe, Professor.

The woman patted her hand. “That's quite nice of you to say… Oh! The tea must be done by now, I should think.”

Picking up the tea kettle, she gestured that Cleo should present her cup first. Hot steam warmed Cleo's palms as the smell of bergamot surrounded her, the tea leaves swirling loose in her cup.

She wasn’t all that up to drinking. Though, if she knew anything about Trelawney, the tea wasn’t just meant to be tea. She was careful on the first sip, grimacing slightly as a bit of tea leaf caught itself on her front tooth. She massaged her tongue over it, eyes focused on the table as she uttered a soft, slightly garbled: “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome,” she replied, pouring her own portion as well. “This is my favorite -- Lady Grey. I figure you and I should be safer from whatever illness is lurking nearby.”

“What makes you think it’s an illness?”

For a moment, the woman simply stared into the middle distance, as if her train of thought had been derailed. “Oh… Do you not remember? Dark forests -- omens of neglect. Perhaps I haven’t been eating enough radishes…”

These were the instances that weren’t so nostalgic -- Trelawney, for all the parts of her that were endearing and worth admiring, had an absolute talent for talking over everyone in the room. A soft hum rumbled in Cleo’s chest in response, as she took another swig of her tea.

Trelawney’s porcelain teacup clinked against the saucer as she placed hers down. “So,” the woman lilted, a clear lead-in to another topic. “I sense you are quite troubled by something.”

Cleo’s eyes snapped to the horrible mess she’d abandoned on the steps of the dias, and with a pained grimace, she leaned forward and covered her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing to worry about, my dear,” Trelawney assured her, adjusting her shawl to sit more comfortably. “Although, I don’t think it quite harmonizes the space.”

The levity was wasted on her, embarrassed as she was. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Well -- it’s only a bit of parchment,” Trelawney commented. “No harm done.”

“It was a letter, actually,” she confessed.

This earned her a confused blink from the woman. “A letter? From whom?”

“Do you remember Cal?”

“Your friend? I remember you inviting him up here for lunch a few times.”

It was certainly something _he_ never really appreciated, regardless of how kind he’d been about it. How easily a nice memory could sour, when confronted with a pattern of her self-centeredness. She grit her teeth briefly before nodding. “Yeah. It was from him.”

Trelawney grimaced sympathetically. “Bad news, then?”

“Probably,” she exhaled, her hands going to grasp her legs tightly. “He hates me now, I think.”

There was a shrewd, expectant attention to her gaze. “Probably?” she questioned.

Having her uncertainty shoved in her face like that made her avoidance seem all the more childish, but she insisted: “There’s no other reason to write me.”

“Have you not read it?”

“I read enough of it.”

“How much?”

“Enough to know how much of an absolute asshole I am,” she sniped, defensive, before flinching away. “Sorry. Shit--” Her eyes slammed shut and she bit down on her lip, hard. “I mean-- sorry. _Sorry_. I didn’t mean to--”

She cut off, mortified. Trelawney hardly seemed to notice her gaffe. “I had no idea this boy was so vicious,” she murmured, a hand to her chest.

“He’s not!” she objected, feeling her cheeks heat. Great. She’d somehow made him the villain, when he’d done _nothing_ wrong. “He’s always been so kind.”

“Oh -- but you said…”

“If he wrote to me angrily, he would be fully justified,” she said, leaning forward to grasp her fairy cake again, before nervously stuffing a large bite into her mouth.

“If there were no bitter words between you, why didn't you read the rest?” the professor inquired, remembering her own cup of tea.

“Because I know what it’s going to say.”

“You do?!” the woman gasped, earnest. “Has your Inner Eye finally revealed itself to you?”

“N-No, it’s not like that,” Cleo stuttered, running out of steam.

“Then how could you know?”

Her eyes rolled upward as a bitter laugh expelled from her. “Because I completely blanked him out for two years. I left school, promising that I’d keep in contact, but I didn’t. I shut everyone out. It’s tantamount to saying I don’t care. Who wouldn’t be mad? And like, what can I say? I can’t explain myself. I deserve it. I keep acting in this way and it just--”

She cut herself short, falling back in her chair. Trelawney frowned.

“It seems likely,” she began, her voice oddly sober, “that if your friend hasn’t heard from you in two years, and he truly hated you as you say, it would make more sense for him to never send you a letter at all.”

Maybe so. But it didn’t help that she saw the opposite just as likely to happen. “It doesn’t matter,” she concluded, folding her hands into her lap. “The point’s moot.”

“Why not read it?” the professor asked.

A myriad of reasons, interconnected, hinged on their own logic that she could spend hours unraveling. But all of them rounded to a singular, rudimentary conclusion. She was too scared to. She couldn’t vocalize this, however. She simply stared at Trelawney, gaze carrying the brunt of her exhaustion.

“Well.” The woman petted a shawl on her arm as if it were a cat. “If _you_ don’t want to read it, then _I_ do.”

Trelawney rose from her seat, promptly walking over to the scattered pieces of parchment that lay on the floor. Carefully, she gathered all of them, bringing them back to where Cleo sat. Taking up her wand, she resumed her seat before halting herself abruptly, her eyes going wide. Turning to Cleo, she uttered the simple plea, “Er… Repair them for me?”

“I’m not any better at reconstitution spells,” Cleo pointed out, albeit a bit petulant.

With a frown, the woman stared at the bits of letter in her hand. Her expression was worried, fearful, as she turned her gaze back to Cleo.

Cleo’s head dipped. Right. The omens. Fuck. She was such a jerk.

With a shake of her head, she leaned forward, collecting the pieces of paper and setting them in a small pile on the table. “Nevermind, I’ll try,” she promised, before reaching into her robes to retrieve her wand. She dragged the tip of it in a lazy circle around the pile, uttering a soft: “ _Recolligo._ ”

It took a second, but the paper pieces began to shift, organizing themselves back into the shape of a letter. Cleo was careful to keep her eyes adrift from the sentences, lest she catch another word that could set her heart going. She scowled and tapped the edge of the parchment. “ _Reparo._ ”

The tears stitched themselves together before the letter sat there, intact, as if it hadn’t been assaulted at all. Haphazard, Cleo fell back into her seat, turning her head to stare at the rows of cushions climbing toward the entrance of the room

“Thank you,” the professor said, voice softer now that the threat to her had receded. She took up the letter and began to read.

The next minute dragged by like a wounded man on the front line. Hyperbole again. But it felt that agonzing, her mind sifting through a collection of reactions the professor could possibly have, all ranging from horrible to catastrophic. She didn’t want to look it, but she felt herself edging deeper into her seat, frightened, just absolutely _dreading_ the moment that Trelawney would speak and elucidate at length the depths to which her former best friend hated her.

When Trelawney was finished, she placed the offending document down in her lap, peering at Cleo curiously. “Three and a half years in my class, and your Divination skills don’t seem to have improved at all!” she lamented with a sigh.

“What?”

She gestured pointedly to the parchment. “There is nothing at all angry or hateful about this letter.”

She hadn’t envisioned this eventuality, so she had no response, other than to stare at Trelawney, frowning. The professor went on: “I think this is a perfectly safe read, my dear.” She performed a grand gesture at herself. “And that’s coming from someone who knows an omen when she sees one.”

Cleo’s next movements were fluid: Bent at the waist, she grasped the letter as Trelawney proffered it to her, and took in a breath.

 _To the lovely Miss Cleo_ , she read again. It still felt biting. But she continued to the next scathing portion of the letter: _Oi! I haven’t heard from you in a while. You said you’d write, and I’ll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Muscle memory had her wanting to toss the thing away again, but when she glanced up, Trelawney’s eyes caught hers. Not a word passed between them, but the woman prompted her with a nod, and Cleo swallowed before looking down to finish the rest.

For shame! 

But seriously, I hope you’re doing alright in Muggle land. You live in Brighton, yeah? If this letter reaches you, I’ll know my experiment of not putting your address on the envelope was a success. Here’s hoping. I’ve got 10 galleons resting on it. 

I’m all graduated now. Which is sort of rubbish, honestly; I’m cleaning dung out of bank vaults. It’s disgusting. Trust me, you leave school, and it’s all downhill, so count yourself lucky. My life is all very “stereotypical medieval drama underdog” right now. I miss you filling me in on all the silly television things. Sadly, Mum is still very against electricity. 

Anyway, I know you’re busy, but you’re welcome to visit. Bring your whole family if you like. Although, I’d be careful, since my aunts will probably drown everyone in tea. They’re like that about visitors. Considering there are people of the Muggle persuasion in your family tree, they will also have no end of deeply uncomfortable questions to ask about your “exotic” lifestyle. Look forward to that! 

Personally, I’ve never met any Muggles, and therefore my reaction is, as yet, untested. So… Will you at least do it for science? Oh, by the way, I’ve been learning about science. Mum hates technology, but she loves books, so she got me some big fancy Muggle ones. Not actual books about real science, but… children’s books I think? With great big cutesy pictures all over? They don’t move, I might add, but I think that’s for the best. There’s one called “Do It For Science”. I also learned about tuberculosis and recycling. Not at the same time. You know what I mean. 

Well, I’m running out of parchment. You know what that means? You should come see me face to face, so I can ramble at you in person. 

Or, you know. At least send me your address. For science. 

Much love, Cal 

Her entire body shivered heavily on an exhale, a hand going to cover her mouth. She had no compunctions about sobbing openly this time. Trelawney rested a hand on her shoulder, a warm, stable weight.

Cleo looked up at her, a sob hiccoughing through her, before she announced with a shaky laugh: “I’m such an idiot.”

“No, you aren’t,” the woman gently chided her.

“I worked myself up like this,” she bemoaned, letting out another sob, “for what? This? I’m so… dramatic, god--”

Trelawney waved a hand through the air, as if she were dispersing the thought. “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed, dear,” she insisted, beginning to rub Cleo’s back soothingly.

It was hard to feel comforted when faced with the reality that she’d nearly left this letter -- this sweet, heartfelt indicator that her old friend was _reaching out_ \-- in a crumpled, torn heap on the floor of the Divination classroom. She sagged under the weight of the day, all her inadequacies piled up around her; now that she had fully gotten started, her tears streamed endlessly on.

Her professor acted as a lean-to that Cleo bore her whole weight against. Shamelessly, she turned her head and buried her face into the woman’s hip.

A single world weaseled its way out, in between her cries and the shawls. “Professor.”

“Hm?”

The woman’s fingers dragged the full load of her head upward, the delicate curve of her palm cradling her damp cheek. She forced Cleo to look head on at her and, in that blur, Cleo let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m going crazy,” she whimpered, her fingers reaching to grasp the woman’s wrist, as if the very presence of it anchored her there. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Her head shook and the room itself felt as if it were beginning to buckle beneath her, burdened by the tremendous weight of her grief.

“I can’t stay.”


	5. Aching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a fire, hard work, and holidays, so arrives chapter five. We hope you enjoy it. Thank you as ever to our beta, Henry. We appreciate your enthusiasm and your utter willingness to be there, beck and call. We love you.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 6: Little One

The morning Dumbledore’s second summons arrived, Harry was _livid_.

Spotting Ron’s bright red head above the corridor’s usual between-class crowd, he grabbed hold of the boy’s sleeve and yanked him into an alcove.

The sudden confrontation sent Ron reeling, his wand halfway out his pocket before his eyes alighted with recognition. “Merlin,” he exhaled, roughly shoving his wand back into his robes. “Warn a bloke before you do something like that, won’t you? ‘Bout gave me a ruddy heart attack--”

“ _Sorry_ , sorry,” came Harry’s hasty interruption, releasing his friend’s arm with conciliatory delicacy. “I’m just--” He broke off with a violent exhalation, fists clenched at his sides. “I was _this bloody close_ to breaking Snape’s _stupid bloody nose_ \--”

“Oh ho, _really_?! I’m almost sorry I wasn’t there to witness,” Ron observed, wry, his arms crossing over his chest. “What’d the git get up to this time?”

Harry’s grimace was pained, and his eyes rolled skyward before refocusing on Ron. “Not here.”

“Alright,” Ron grumbled, his head tilting. “Common room, then?”

“No,” he refused hastily. “Too er, crowded.”

“Bit picky, aren’t you?”

He threw a baleful glare in Ron’s direction. “That’s--!”

“Oi, oi, I’m just taking the mick! No need to give me that look!” 

Harry frowned, muttering, “C’mon, Ron, this is serious.”

“Alright, well, if you need to talk that bad… Suppose I could skip Care of Magical Creatures, if we can avoid Hermione…” Harry felt his stomach twist as his friend continued, oblivious. “I'm peckish, but I guess the Great Hall’s out, in that case,” he mused, before glancing, conspiratorial, over his shoulder. “Haven’t been down to the kitchens in a while. Maybe you can convince the house elves to conjure you up some-- what’d you say it was called?-- oh, tacos.”

Considering the situation, Harry didn't particularly care; he had no appetite at all. “Sure-- fine. Let's just go,” he urged.

Ron's eyebrows rose, but all he said was: “Lead the way.”

When they arrived, the kitchen was filled to the brim with the high-pitched squeaks and murmurs from hundreds of house elves, all bustling about with platters of food that were larger than they were. Upon entering, they were nearly bowled over by three elves who were pushing a large cart, atop which were massive pots of steaming soup. In an instant, one of the elves appeared at their side.

“O-Oh,” the little elf stuttered, wide eyes flickering between them both. “Zimsy is being sorry, but students a-aren’t allowed in the kitchens--”

“Er…” Harry cast a look at Ron, then said: “We’re only visiting.”

Being forced to confront them further only appeared to make the house elf more distressed, as she cast her head about, ears flopping. “N-No. Zimsy isn’t explaining properly to sirs. Zimsy is being most sorry. Students is not allowed in the kitchens under any circumstances, Headmaster says so.”

“Harry Potter!” A familiar voice puttered, clumsy, through the din, and the elf that it belonged to bounced in their direction, a pile of multicolored hats teetering atop his head. “And Harry Potter’s most admirable friend!”

Ron appeared slightly put off, but no more than Zimsy, who began clawing at her own ears, pulling them hard over the side of her face. “Not _you_ again!”

Dobby approached them with overflowing excitement. “Dobby is so happy to be visited by such honorable sirs!”

Harry offered the elf a small smile. “Good to see you, too.”

“Dobby is not supposed to be being in here either!” Zimsy screeched, pulling her ears so hard that Harry feared she’d tear them off.

Dobby scowled at the other elf, his face scrunching up as he informed her, “Dobby is being on a break!”

“Break!” Zimsy gasped, as if the word disgusted her to her very core. “Zimsy is continuing to tell Dobby to not be practicing weird _rituals_ here!” She stomped her feet for good measure, looking as if she were about to burst. “And Dobby must be telling the sirs to leave!”

“The Headmaster is saying Dobby is doing anything Dobby is wishing on a break!”

The next thing that spilled out of Zimsy’s mouth was a loud, horrendous scream, filling the expanse of the kitchen and causing some of the other house elves -- and even Harry and Ron themselves -- to cover their ears.

Dobby’s tiny form puffed up and he spoke up over the cacophony. “Zimsy is being on a break too!” he accused.

In an instant, the screaming stopped. Zimsy trembled, her wide eyes somehow tearing themselves wider, as she stared at Dobby in horror. “W-What?”

“A break is stopping duties in the middle of the day!” the elf informed her.

Zimsy began to hyperventilate, her nails raking over her ears. “Oh no.”

“If Zimsy is talking to sirs,” Dobby reasoned, his pile of hats bobbing along with his head, “Zimsy is being on a break.”

It took a moment of huffing and puffing until Zimsy burst into tears, panic awash in her limbs as she stomped and flailed. “Zimsy has to be punished!” she blubbered as she broke into a sprint toward one of the ovens at the far end of the kitchen. “Dobby is being a horrible influence! Zimsy was being on a break! Zimsy has to be punished!”

“Wait--!” Harry turned a beseeching look to Dobby. “Can you stop her…?”

“Of course! Dobby is doing anything for Harry Potter!” The elf had set off so quickly that he was halfway across the room by the time his sentence finished, putting his small body ahead of Zimsy to block her way.

Ron and Harry looked on as the two elves battled it out, one clawing at the oven door (no doubt in order to slam her fingers in or perform some other equally violent harm to herself) and the other with his arms wrapped around her shoulders, hats toppling off his head as he struggled to pin her arms. The other elves gave them a wide berth; Harry couldn't tell if it was because of the clothing strewn about or the vigorous nature of the fight.

Ron prodded his arm, and when Harry turned his way he inclined his head to a nearby counter that appeared to be human-sized. He didn't need to be told twice; they made their way carefully over, dodging all the elves on the way.

Harry let out a whoosh of air from his lungs as he settled himself on a stool. “Glad that’s finally over with,” he intoned to Ron.

“Right,” the redhead muttered, leaning on one of the counters where a house elf was cutting open a pumpkin. “What's 'Mione see in these little monsters?”

“Er…” Harry cast a worried glance at the elf right next to them, though the creature appeared to take no notice of them. “Dobby's alright, though.”

“ _Sure_ he's alright, for a bloke who tried to murder you.” 

Harry's laugh was short. “Well, of everyone in that category, he's the most preferable company, I guess.”

“‘Better than bloody You-Know-Who’ isn't saying much,” he remarked, sarcastic.

“Well I meant--”

Ron waved a dismissive hand. “I know what you meant, mate. I am, after all,” he attempted to imitate Dobby's affectionate soprano, “ _Harry Potter's most admirable friend_.”

Harry's amused smile ended up looking more like a grimace. He could tell just by the look of worry that Ron gave him. Still, he tried to respond with some semblance of humor. “Your house elf impersonation needs some work.”

Ron didn't reply. A quiet descended on them so thick that even the noise in the spacious room seemed to dim ever so slightly.

His friend gazed out across the busy crowd of elves, leaning both elbows behind him on the counter. “So... what was this about Snape, then?”

“He’s a huge prick, that’s what,” Harry murmured, subdued.

“Wow, what a revelation!” Ron feigned surprise, before leveling Harry a knowing look.

On the back of a sigh, Harry explained, “The git had us brewing a memorized recipe today. A month ahead of when he said we would.”

“Memorized...? You don't mean...”

“Yeah.” He slumped, resting his chin in both hands atop the counter. “Part of some ‘field training’ tripe. Hermione was, er… pretty excited about it,” at this, his dejection reached its peak, “but I mean-- We weren’t assigned any memorization for homework. Everyone just came to class, and he said, ‘Make a potion, no books allowed’, and that was it.”

“I'm officially cured of wishing I was there to see it,” Ron quipped, though his face was contorted in disgust. “How in the world are you meant to do that?”

“ _No idea!_ ” Harry shook his head, miserable. “But there’s everyone going for their supplies, and Snape’s staring right at me, like he’s waiting for me to say I don’t know what to do.”

“Sounds about right,” the redhead conferred, scowling.

“So… I tried it,” Harry said, words heavy. “I tried to remember, just so I could wipe that smug look off his face. Went and got all the ingredients I could think of for the Wit-Sharpening Potion.”

“Wit-Sharpening--!” he spluttered with a disbelieving laugh. “He did that on purpose, the slimy git!”

“And it gets worse,” Harry remarked, grim. “A _lot_ worse. Er… I dunno, maybe we should have done this in the dormitory or something…”

“Harry Potter!”

Dobby popped into existence beside them so suddenly that Harry jerked.

“Dobby is stopping Zimsy from punishment, just as Harry Potter said!” he proudly announced. Ron snorted and, looking over, Harry could see the other elf struggling, her arms tied to a chair using dishcloths.

“Uh… great…?” Harry replied, unenthused.

“Oi, Dobby, mind fetching me some bangers and mash from over there?” Ron chimed in. “Oh, and some popovers! And the squash!”

By the end, he'd had to shout, as the elf had already skipped away, ecstatic to be of service. Harry scowled at his friend. “Seriously? Weren't you just calling them little monsters five minutes ago?”

“Changed my mind,” was Ron's breezy reply.

“You're mental.”

The redhead shrugged. “Nah, just hungry.”

Harry raised his eyebrows as Dobby returned with an enormous platter of food. “Here is food for sirs!” the elf squeaked, beaming at them both.

“Er…” Harry looked down into those large, expectant eyes, gently pointing out: “Didn't you say you were on break, Dobby?”

“Oh yes!” the elf assured him. “Dobby is assigned to bathroom cleaning duty, but for a break Dobby wanted to clean in the kitchens!”

“Uh-- aren't breaks usually times where you _don't_ have to work?”

“Professor Dumbledore is saying Dobby is allowed to do whatever Dobby is wishing on a break!” he repeated the same refrain he so gleefully offered to Zimsy. “So, Dobby is doing that!”

That was sort of missing the point, Harry mused, but it didn’t seem right to call attention to it when the elf seemed so happy to be there. “Right,” he conceded, though reluctantly.

Ron appeared oblivious to the entire exchange, exclaiming with a mouth full of food, “Dis is ban’ on--”

Harry frowned and Dobby beamed. Shifting in his seat, he commented: “Do you seriously intend to eat all of that?”

Ron shot him a look that read very clearly as _of course, are you crazy?_ before the boy was shoveling another forkful of mash into his mouth, a pleased sigh escaping his nose. Dobby cut in, “Would sirs like more?”

Alarmed, Harry shook his head, making a quelling gesture for good measure. “No no, that won’t be necessary.”

The elf’s ears flopped as he steadied the teetering tower of hats atop his head. “Harry Potter has been eating good?”

It was such a odd question that Harry paused with confusion. “Er… yes. It’s-- I’m just not hungry right now.”

“Dobby is wondering what Harry Potter’s summer was like!”

Oh. Was Dobby actually… worrying about him? He sounded a bit like Mrs. Weasley just then. Harry supposed the elf had a right to, since they hadn’t really talked since last year. He mustered a thin smile and an answer: “It was good… No elves came to knock around in my wardrobe or drop puddings on my relatives, so that worked out.”

Dobby at least had the good grace to look abashed. “Dobby was only doing those things to protect Harry Potter!”

“I know,” he replied, patting Dobby on his shoulder. “You’re a good friend.”

Ron saw fit to interject with: “Even if you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Dobby blinked his gleaming eyes, moisture threatening to tip over the lids. “Harry Potter is… is Dobby’s _friend_?”

Surprised, Harry sat up, his hand falling away from the elf’s shoulder. “Well… yeah. Of course.”

Dobby took hold of the pink jumper he was wearing to weep loudly and openly into it. Harry cast his eyes about with worry, but none of the other elves paid him any mind. Amidst the elf’s cries, he hiccuped, “H-Harry Potter is being so v-very kind to s-say so!”

“Er…”

“Dobby w-will be doing his b-best to be being a good f-friend to Harry P-Potter!”

He frowned, looking to Ron for help. The redhead shrugged, taking a bite of squash. Suddenly, the elf before him snapped to attention, though tears continued to stream down his pointed face.

“If there is anything that Harry Potter is needing, Dobby will help!”

“Just, er…” He looked over at the still-struggling Zimsy. “Maybe… let her out of there, and enjoy the rest of your break. Okay?”

The elf’s expression was positively glowing with pride. “As Harry Potter says, Dobby is doing it! Dobby is always wanting to make Harry Potter happy!”

He watched as the elf dutifully returned to Zimsy before he turned his attention back to his friend. “Ah… any chance you could take that as carryout?”

“Thought you didn’t want to go to the dorms,” Ron stated after a long swallow.

“I don’t know,” Harry frowned, eyes downcast. “It’s… This just doesn’t seem like the place to talk about…”

Ron’s brow drooped in a showing of concern. “Did something happen?”

He rose from his chair with a grim mien. “Yeah. Suppose the halls are less crowded by now? It’s loud in here.”

Ron appeared wary. “Probably,” he muttered.

Acknowledging this with only a short nod, the two made their way out of the busy kitchens, through the portrait-door, and out into the hall. Despite the time it took to accomplish this, Harry was no closer to figuring out how to break his news to Ron.

“So, uhm, first thing’s first-- I’m supposed to tell you that nobody is allowed in the Hospital Wing for a day or two. Okay?”

“What… does that have to do with anything?”

“It's, er-- I'll get to that,” Harry replied heavily.

Ron reared up slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s going _on_ , Harry?”

He could see Ron was getting angry… Time to just spit it out. “My potion, um-- at the end of class, Snape said I had to test it on someone.”

“What? Why you?”

“Who else would it be? I'm his favorite person to humiliate,” Harry complained. “I made the potion. It was-- I thought it was right! The color was right, the consistency was right, the finished potion was stable! But when I went to turn it in, he said that my potion was hardly worth looking at! He told me if I wanted a grade, I had to prove my potion _worked_.”

“Ridiculous,” was Ron’s scathing reply, his brow dipping lower.

“I thought he was just finding an excuse to throw out my potion.”

“Likely,” his friend mused. “But I suppose the potion didn't actually work, yeah? So, who was the victim this time?”

Now was the hard bit-- It was difficult to gauge how Ron would react to this news. Harry wasn't sure how he felt about it either, but he grimaced, stomach turning as he uttered the name.

“Hermione.”

Abject silence. In an instant, Ron's face turned as red as his hair. “ _He didn’t!_ ” the boy shouted, so loud that his voice careened down the corridor and around the corner. Harry winced.

“He did,” Harry affirmed, morose. Ron's fists were clenched at his sides, and the sight of it flared Harry's own outrage. “And what's more-- When he called on her, he said that… that for all her _brains_ she could certainly use more _wit_.”

“Oh _bugger_ him!” Ron shouted even louder somehow, body lurching to head past Harry.

Alarmed, he reacted quickly. Following after, he called ahead, “Ron! Where are you going?!”

“Where do you think?!” he barked. “I’ve had enough of that black-hearted tosser! And if Dumbledore doesn’t sack him, I’ll--”

“What are you going to do, attack him?” Harry countered with a teetering sense of responsibility, uncomfortable in the role Hermione would normally occupy. “You'll be expelled, Ron!”

Ron stopped suddenly, wheeling around to face Harry. “Thanks for the vote of confidence! Do you think I’m stupid or something!?” Ron accused. “I _meant_ , I’m reporting that slimeball to Dumbledore!”

Oh. Harry jolted to a stop, frowning. “It still won't do any good,” he insisted. “He'll just talk his way out of it, like he always does!”

“I won’t let him!”

“I'm going to talk to Dumbledore today anyway,” Harry sighed, deflating. “You didn't even have class with us or see what happened, so any complaint from you wouldn't make sense.”

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, I’m still going with you.”

“We can't even be certain where Dumbledore is right now. And I'll be there just before curfew.”

“So, what? You're saying I can’t help?”

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “I don't know. Just… doesn't seem like there's anything we really can do.”

“Anything _I_ can do, you mean,” Ron corrected, bitter.

“Come on, don't be like that,” Harry said. “You know what I mean.”

He didn’t appear mollified. “Piss off, Harry,” Ron sneered. “If you think I'm going to sit around and do nothing while my friend is _suffering_ , you're mental.”

“I'm sorry, okay? I wish there was more to do, but there just isn't!”

“I still think talking to Dumbledore is a good idea!” Ron shot back, petulant.

“And I said I would,” Harry remarked, weary.

“Whatever,” Ron grumbled, shoving his fists into his pockets. “I’m going to go see ‘Mione, then.”

“Er…” Harry cast a guilty look across the floor before focusing on Ron again. “I did mention we're not… allowed.”

“I don’t care,” Ron scoffed, beginning his walk again. “What did you think was going to happen? I was going to let her go it alone, without anyone to visit? Yeah, right.”

“Ron--!” Harry jogged to catch up. “You'll do more harm than good!”

“Bollocks!”

“The Wit-Sharpening Potion fouled up something with her brain, Pomfrey said!” he insisted. “She hears sounds too loud or some such! But she told me we absolutely cannot go to the Hospital Wing; she's sectioned off Hermione from the rest of the ward, even.”

“Well that’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Ron complained, wheeling around and clearly in a foul mood.

Harry faltered, slowing to a stop. “I know. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“What in the world do you have to be sorry about?” Ron balked, pacing back and forth, brow furrowed in anger. “If anything, it’s that grease-wad who should be apologizing-- Merlin, Harry.” He halted, his expression overcast as he looked Harry dead in the eye. “Hermione. How bad was she?”

“She-- er…” Harry paused, the memory haunting. “The second she drank the potion, she… collapsed. Started shaking really bad, and crying…”

“That’s mad,” Ron blurted out. “Completely _vicious!_ Harry, can’t you see it? This is _evil_. He’s come after you before, but never like-- he’s never _hurt_ someone over it. Merlin!” Ron pulled a hand through his hair, a loud burst of breath snaking through his lips. “You don’t think he’s still mad about you being in his class, do you?”

Seeing the results of his first mission with Snape, that was still very much a consideration, wasn’t it? All the man’s vile taunts, the threats… Harry could still hear the dull clack of his wand hitting the floor of the drawing room.

“He’s always had it out for me, Ron,” was his comment, “but I don’t know…”

“What?” Ron asked, frowning.

“You remember the night I went to talk to Dumbledore?”

“Yeah…?”

“I, er… did more than just talk,” Harry confessed, scratching his head. “He actually sent me on a mission.”

“What, for real?” Ron questioned, gobsmacked. “An actual mission for the Or-- er, the old crowd?”

“Sort of?” Harry said. “I mean, not really. But… yes.”

“So, what? What’s this got to do with Snape?”

He frowned. “Dumbledore sent me with him. For the mission.”

Ron practically reared back from the shock. “What?!”

“It’s a long story,” Harry prefaced, weary. “But let’s just say he wasn’t exactly… happy about it.”

“What, so because he had to do that, he’s attacking people now?!”

He frowned at his friend. “It’s not so straightforward as all that,” he commented, airy, “but after we got back… I happened to witness his late night meeting with Malfoy.”

Ron leaned in, eyes squinting and his voice lowering to a breathy baritone: “What… sort of meeting?”

“The ‘shady corner at midnight’ kind.”

“Well?” Ron prompted. “What did they say?”

“A lot of it was talking in circles, but Malfoy was going on about some promise Snape made to his father.”

“A promise? To Lucius Malfoy?” the words heaved out of him, aghast. “A _Death Eater_? The same bloke who tried to snuff you a few months back, and is now in _Azkaban_?”

Harry blew out a puff of air. “Puts it all in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“But honestly, you know what this means, right?”

“That nothing has changed, and Snape continues to be seconds away from outright murdering someone?”

“I mean, this time there’s evidence, yeah?” Ron suggested. “You can tell Dumbledore, show him the truth about that scumbag.”

With a skeptical glance, Harry mentioned, “He’s been pretty clear before that Snape has his ‘absolute trust’, for whatever reason.”

“I’m just saying,” Ron groused. “We’ve always worked on hunches before. Now there’s real evidence. He can’t ignore that.”

“True enough,” he conceded, though his hope in that quarter was lacking. “I, uh, had another note from Dumbledore today. You suppose he wants to send me on another mission with Snape?”

“Best hope not,” Ron replied, grim.

Harry glanced down the hallway as a group of Hufflepuffs came round the corner. “Yeah,” he sighed, turning away. “I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”

“Right,” Ron grunted. “Yeah. Sure.”

Harry arrived at the Headmaster’s office a half hour early, hoping to speak with the man in private. Unfortunately, when he knocked on the door, there was no answer.

With a grimace, he stood there, in much the same position as he had the last time he’d been forced to wait outside. Of course Dumbledore was a busy man, but he still felt jittery; the man’s utter avoidance of any contact last year was still fresh in Harry’s mind. Much as he would like to forget, these moments, this curious silence… He hated it.

A minute passed. Then two. Finally, the door opened outward, and out came-- that Slytherin girl. Croft.

Harry couldn’t mask the look of incredulity on his face. “What are _you_ doing here?” he blurted, voice quiet and skeptical.

Before she could answer, the Headmaster’s voice drifted toward them. “Is that you Harry, my boy? Come in, come in.”

The girl didn’t even look at him, marching down the stairs without the slightest hesitation in her step. He let her go, ducking inside the Headmaster’s office and pulling the door shut.

Resuming his usual seat -- the armchair closest to the fire -- Harry inquired, with a thumb jabbed in the direction of the door, “What’s that about?”

The older man’s eyebrows rose, and his tone was admonishing. “Harry, you know I cannot talk about private meetings with other students.”

“Yeah, sure,” was Harry’s sullen reply as he slouched in his chair. Dumbledore cocked his head.

“I am surprised to see you this early, but it is rather opportune,” the man commented. “I have been meaning to speak with you.”

Harry looked up. “You have?”

“It has been several weeks since last we spoke,” Dumbledore prefaced, “and I must say that the debrief you and Professor Snape gave was… irregular.”

He tensed, suppressing a frown. How could he forget? He’d been on pins and needles, waiting for Snape to lay out all the reasons why he was worthless as an Order member. Why he hadn’t was entirely beyond Harry’s understanding, especially since the professor hadn’t hesitated in the slightest to humiliate Harry that very morning and many times since. The thought of it caused his rage and guilt to vie for dominance in his stomach, churning up every bad feeling he harbored for the vile man.

But-- before he could begin to unravel his jumble of heated thoughts in order to comment, Dumbledore had more to say. “Even more irregular was the conversation I had with our new Minister for Magic the following day.”

Harry’s inner thoughts struggled to a halt. “The... Minister for Magic?” he inquired slowly.

“Yes,” the Headmaster amiably replied. “In fact, Minister Scrimgeour posed to me a question which I found very puzzling.” Dumbledore’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight as he shifted in his seat, half-moon spectacles lowering over his nose, bemused and pensive. “He asked, ‘Has Harry Potter been away from Hogwarts recently?’ To which I, of course, replied, ‘The boy remains at school as we speak, though he surely enjoys the occasional trip to Hogsmeade with his classmates.’”

Harry shrank in his seat, his previous anger feeling quite distant, like a layer of static in the ears and nothing more. What could he say? The truth would surely lose him this precious opportunity to go on missions, and to lie would be foolish, knowing what he did about Legilimency… not that he expected the Headmaster to literally _read his mind_ , but _still_ \--

“Was… was there a reason for his curiosity?” Harry asked, placing the question between himself and Dumbledore as if it would protect him from the chastisement he knew was coming.

“An astute question, and one I posed myself,” the Headmaster remarked, brushing a hand down his beard in thought. “It would seem the Minister was primarily concerned with a report of underage magic performed by Harry Potter in Surrey. And not only magic, but Apparition! I informed him that, knowing you and your academics personally, I could confidently say that you had never performed such magic, and that it was quite outside your current capabilities.”

It made him feel horrible that Dumbledore had been forced to lie on his behalf, no matter how plausible it might have been. So plausible, in fact, that it would have been entirely true up until that one night! Still, Harry’s jaw was clenched tight, and his gaze cast off to the side, blurrily surveying the edge of the carpet.

“He and I ultimately concluded that the occurrence was a rare anomaly, possibly some sort of mischief perpetrated by those who are still opposed to you and all you represent,” Dumbledore explained, gazing directly at Harry in a way that made him feel skewered. “But I have to wonder if that is not quite the full story. Have you any insights, Harry?”

The sound of his own name felt painful, but-- well. This was it, wasn’t it? He should have known this was coming; of course Dumbledore was going to find out. If not by Snape, then by some other means. And really, what leg did he have to stand on? This was all a mess he’d created himself. It was childish to deflect and postpone this moment, which had been weighing on him for the last two weeks.

He sat up straighter, taking in a large breath for strength. “That’s not really how it happened at all,” Harry said, his voice coming out low in energy but deeply resonant within the quiet room.

The Headmaster’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

Harry’s expression crumpled, caught halfway between anguish and frustration. “You don’t have to pretend you’re surprised!”

The other man seemed nonplussed by this outburst. “Oh, but I am, Harry,” he commented, voice calm as he threaded his fingers before him on the desk. “The ways by which underage magic is detected are very complex, and rarely inaccurate or unfair, except in cases where context is required. I do not, however, have any context at all, outside of knowing that you actually _were_ in Surrey at that time. Although, being with Professor Snape, your movements ought to have been masked.”

“They were,” Harry insisted. “I mean-- they would have been, except… I Apparated to Surrey by myself.”

“I was not aware you knew how to Apparate,” the Headmaster remarked.

“Well, I hadn’t actually done it before,” he admitted, his lip twisting. “Just sort of heard some people talk about what it was like.”

“You are unhurt, I assume?”

“I, er… didn’t splinch myself or anything, no.”

“Learning Apparition by hearsay, hm?” Dumbledore chuckled. “I seem to have underestimated you once more, haven’t I?”

Harry frowned. “I mean, I wouldn’t call in-depth commentaries by Hermione ‘hearsay’.”

“But you understand this curiosity must obviously follow-- since I feel certain that Professor Snape would never have _allowed_ this to occur.”

“No, he didn’t,” Harry concurred, sour. “He actually left me in Norwich by myself.”

“He did, did he?” the Headmaster mumbled, pursing his lips.

“Yeah,” he stated, his anger resurging, “and he didn’t even tell me what he was doing! Just went about his business as if I wasn’t even there!” Dumbledore didn’t immediately react, or really react much at all, which only stoked Harry’s ire. “If the whole point of this was for me to _contribute_ , you’ll be glad to know Snape made sure I could do exactly _nothing!_ ”

“Harry,” the Headmaster began, his voice deliberate and calm as a counterpoint to Harry's. “Warding is quite a broad topic. It would be unfair of me to require Professor Snape to teach it to you with such a time limit.”

Exasperated, Harry dropped his hands atop his knees. “Well then, what was I supposed to do?! You even said I should participate!”

“The goal of your previous trip was for you to learn the locations of safehouses, and the safest ways to enter them.”

“Well _that_ didn't happen!”

“You used Floo travel to enter Grimmauld Place, did you not? And, I presume, you were shown how to enter the estate at Norwich?”

“Well-- sort of,” Harry admitted.

“And I feel certain that, given the chance, Professor Snape would have shown you the process by which we approach Privet Drive, since your summer home requires a great deal more caution to reach.”

“About that,” he mentioned with a glare. “Are you lot seriously spying on me at all times, or what? First there’s Mrs. Figg, and now I hear about extra wards and… do all the Order members know how to Apparate there? Do people just show up without my knowing all the time, is that it?”

Dumbledore’s frown was sad. “It is true your security is very important, but you are not being watched in secret.”

Though he would like to take that at face value, Harry took little comfort from that pronouncement. There were still so many things he didn’t know, so many things being hidden from him all the time… His mind couldn’t help but jump to last year, his friends’ apologetic faces when they admitted to being sworn to silence. Dumbledore’s own downtrodden expression as Harry destroyed anything in the office he could get his hands on…

The memory was stark while sitting in the same room where it occurred, though it almost felt like a dream, as if it was someone else who had executed the destruction. Still, he was struck sharply in that moment by how off-putting the room looked in its current state. Clean, organized. Unaltered. As if his outburst had never happened. As if it didn’t matter. Like it was being swept under the rug like so much troublesome dirt.

Harry lifted his head, expression stony and hands clasped painfully in his lap. “Has Snape always been lurking about Privet Drive?”

Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, brows drawn together. “Harry, I have been patient up to now, but this disrespect for Professor Snape is--”

“He doesn’t _deserve_ my respect,” Harry interrupted, each syllable clipped. “Just tell me. Has he been around Privet Drive before?”

The older man looked displeased, his frown thinning before he answered: “Professor Snape has only been there a handful of times, and has only ever verified the wards. He has never gone anywhere near the house itself.”

“Pity. Maybe my mum’s wards would have incinerated him on the spot,” he returned, vitriolic.

“ _Harry_.” His name burst from the Headmaster with such sudden severity that Harry flinched. “What has got into you?”

“Me?! What about _him_?!” Harry erupted, hands clasped so tightly that the bones in his hands were protesting. “Don’t you know what happened to Hermione?”

Dumbledore’s hands came together in his lap, fingers folding in on one another, as he leaned back in his chair. _He recovered quickly_ , Harry mused. The man was back to his usual infuriating calm, though there remained an edge of solemnity to it. “I imagine you have something pressing you wish to tell me about the matter.”

“Yeah, it’s pressing, alright,” he shot back. “He purposely ordered her to try a potion when he _knew_ it would hurt her!”

“That is quite an accusation,” Dumbledore replied, grave. “A serious one, too.”

“I’d say an extended trip to the Hospital Wing is pretty serious, don’t you think?”

“Very much so,” was Dumbledore’s soft rejoinder, weathered fingers combing pensively through his beard.

Harry aimed a shrewd glare in the Headmaster’s direction. “If you’re going to just agree with what I’m saying, then can I assume that Snape is already _sacked_ , then?” he remarked, sarcastic.

There was a casual flourish of his hand on the downswing of another comb through his beard, and in an instant a scroll drew upward from a drawer below him, pulling across his desk as a quill nearby inked and then poised itself delicately at the edge of the parchment. Dumbledore relinked his hands and leaned forward, watching Harry closely. “I am afraid it won’t be as easy as that,” he said in a tone Harry assumed was meant to be jovial, but just missed the mark. “Official testimonies will be required-- from you, other possible witnesses… you understand.”

He sat up straight, chest thrown out. “Good! The whole class saw. Maybe this time we’ll finally be able to be rid of him!”

Dumbledore didn’t take this bait; a fuzzy eyebrow rose before he lifted a hand, as if to urge Harry to proceed.

He obliged gladly, continuing: “Snape pushed up an assignment for a memorized potion to today. Something we weren’t supposed to do for at least a _month_ more. So, naturally, some--”

At that exact moment, the fireplace flared, drenching the room in pale green light. Harry’s stomach dropped and his gaze slid hesitantly toward the dark figure kicking soot from his boots.

Snape.

He wore a distinct expression of disgust and reproach as he looked over at the Headmaster, but before he could voice the words which seemed to be burning behind his cold, black eyes, Dumbledore spoke. “Ah, Severus. How fortuitous that you join us at this time. I think a statement from the accused would actually be a more appropriate place to start--”

Without missing a single beat, Snape remarked, “Whatever nonsense Potter has seen fit to regurgitate likely has scant resemblance to reality.”

Harry heaved in a breath, rebuttal leaning, ready and eager, against his gritted teeth. Dumbledore, however, beat him to the punch. “All the more reason for you to clear up the matter, yes?” the man pointed out, ignoring the cutting edge to Snape’s tone. “I hear there was an incident involving Miss Granger?”

“An incident, yes.” Snape walked further into the room, robes trailing behind him as he approached a dark, leather-backed bergère near the opposite side of the Headmaster’s desk.

Dumbledore raised a few gnarled fingers to pull his half moon spectacles lower over his nose, staring up at Snape, unnervingly casual. “I assume I can depend upon you to reprise all the salient details?”

His primary acknowledgement was a mere wave of the hand, sitting in the chair before he said, “Mr. Potter flagrantly crafted a flawed potion of such unacceptable quality that such an allowance could not even be made for a first year. When I refused to accept his subpar offering at the close of class time, he became irate and belligerent.”

“The potion was stable!” Harry burst out. “I worked on it for two full hours; it was bottled up! Fail me if you’re going to, but at least just _take the stupid potion_!”

Dumbledore raised a hand to silence Harry, his attention solely on Snape. “Mr. Potter mentioned that the memorization test was given a month ahead of time?”

“No exact measurements were given to the timeframe; the occurrences of memorization practicals are irregular by design. Mr. Potter is, perhaps, referring to the one month at the start of term in which N.E.W.T. Potions students were allowed to study and prepare before the practical exercises would begin.”

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, head canted slightly, expectant. It was hard to think through his haze of anger, but… he had a sinking feeling that Snape was right. As a matter of fact, Hermione had been really excited about the practicals-- had repeatedly reminded Harry to study. Now that he thought about it, her admonishment that he ‘only had a month’ had perhaps stuck in his head incorrectly.

Still, that didn’t change the rest of what Snape had done. And he wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction of conceding the point.

“Bit difficult to recall useless details like that when my friend is in the Hospital Wing because of you.”

“Harry, I understand your anger. But I would ask you to refrain from speaking to Professor Snape in that manner,” Dumbledore smoothed over, though his tone didn’t sound so gentle. It was a warning. A stern one.

“Yes _sir_ ,” he ground out, a headache beginning to form.

The Headmaster gestured toward Snape, his open palm prompting the man to continue. “You mentioned difficulty with regard to Mr. Potter turning in his assignment?”

“I hold my N.E.W.T. classes to a high standard. I take special care and time to expand their education to a professional level. I reserve the right to refuse submissions which make a mockery of the hard work demonstrated amongst the rest of the class.”

“Mr. Potter holds the position that his potion was worthy of acceptance,” Dumbledore pressed, his eye traveling to watch the tail end of the quill flutter as it continued to write, verbatim, every word that passed between them.

Snape’s dark gaze landed squarely on Harry, who glared back. “Yes, he made it a point to say his potion was the ‘correct color’, and ‘stable’, which further demonstrated his utter failing to grasp the subject matter.

“To start,” the professor sneered, “‘color’ is not a correct indicator of a potion’s efficacy, but merely a helpful guideline to indicate metamorphosis during the brewing process. Mr. Potter performed none of the recommended testing procedures prior to his attempt to turn in his potion. Secondly: he is unequivocally wrong on both fronts. His potion was neither the correct color, nor stable. There were several delays in his brewing process which meant that he did not finish the mixture until the very last minutes of class. His potion was not allowed to cool, and was therefore still in flux.”

Harry felt as if there was some horrible creature coiled in his stomach, eating away at his insides. Of course Snape would turn all this around. Harry had even predicted as much to Ron -- _he’ll only talk his way out of it_ \-- but he had expected to at least have the courtesy of a private meeting with Dumbledore first! The nature of the situation was such that it felt more like a public execution than a discussion.

Still, he couldn’t waste this lead-in. “Well then,” Harry countered, “if you _knew_ all that, it seems a little -- oh, I don’t know -- _disgusting_ to have allowed another student to drink it.”

It irritated him a little to see the slight tick in Dumbledore’s lips that seemed to signal some amount of amusement as he looked at Snape as if to say: _Your volley_. This wasn’t a game! But leave it to Dumbledore to wear a mask of gravity instead of actually being serious once in his bloody life!

“Miss Granger was in full control of her faculties when she chose to consume an unstable potion. I saw to it that she be relocated safely to the Hospital Wing following the consequences of her actions.”

“Are you having a laugh?!” Harry shouted, legs propelling him out of his seat. “ _You told her to drink it!_ ”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Then I would ask, Severus, that you explain what you _did_ say, in order to clear the air,” Dumbledore suggested in a tone all-too-genial for Harry’s taste.

Snape turned to face the Headmaster, then. “When Mr. Potter continued to insist that I accept his potion, I suggested that I would agree to grade it if he could prove that it worked properly. Then, in an effort to dissuade him, I suggested that he test it on one of his friends: Miss Granger. By no means did I require her to obey, nor was it a direct order. If anything, I expected Mr. Potter’s persistent affection for heroics to end the matter entirely.”

“That’s a load of _shite_ , and you bloody well know it!” Harry exploded, swinging his arm out for emphasis. “You--!”

He stopped, breathing heavy, his rage so consuming that he felt paralyzed by it. How dare he make it out like there was nothing wrong with what he did! It was always like this, Snape slithering out of any blame, making Harry seem the most irrational, the most _dangerous_. Hermione was injured in his class, and yet there was no responsibility for him to take? Did he really plan to pin it all on them? As if Harry and Hermione had _plotted_ to put her in the Hospital Wing, entirely against Snape’s wishes? The man had _openly mocked her_! His whole story was a bloody _farce_!

Yet, he could say none of it. His throat was impossibly tight; he felt light-headed, unable to breathe. Harry clenched his eyes closed, preventing himself from catching even the slightest glimpse of the Death Eater who sat mere feet away. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to witness the man get away with this, and make out Harry to be the fool!

Several seconds passed, Harry willing himself to take in air. All the while, the room was very quiet. He opened his eyes, throwing them in Dumbledore’s direction, beseeching. “Professor…” he croaked, but his voice petered off as he took in the man’s expression. Calm, intent, his stare was fixed at a point separate from Harry, as if he weren’t even there.

The sight of it was all too familiar, causing Harry to rear back. This was the Dumbledore of last year. The one who refused to look in his direction, the one who pretended not to hear Harry calling after him… The one who thought that shutting him out was for the best. Harry followed his line of sight to Snape, who sat similarly stoic. Their locked gazes were closed off to Harry, who stood alone at the center. There was a conversation within the abject silence, one which Harry did not have the capability to grasp. It was disconnected from him, another world away.

All his words crumbled, falling away from his mouth and back down his throat. Dumbledore’s quill was poised over the parchment, very still. It could not record Legilimency. Unfortunately, neither could Harry.

He sank back into his seat slowly, staring down at his fingers in his lap. They felt numb, after all the clenching he’d been doing. This all really had been pointless, hadn’t it? Where Snape was concerned, Dumbledore was never going to see reason. He was, after all, Dumbledore’s only spy. He couldn’t really afford to sack him, even if he wanted to.

There was a horrible ache in his chest, a harbinger of suppressed words. Suppressed emotion. He was used to the feeling, but… He’d thought he was safe from it here, in this office. Just another false assumption he’d made in his childish hope for security. For _consideration_. Those were, of course, luxuries that the Boy Who Lived could _never_ afford, he thought harshly.

It was another minute before the two roused from their communications. The Headmaster spoke first. “Ah, Harry, pardon the interruption. There were a few words I wished to exchange with your teacher in private.”

Harry almost wished, would’ve almost preferred, if the Headmaster had just dismissed him outright, to leave him sitting outside the office again as he’d done a myriad of times before. At least that retained some modicum of dignity to it.

“It’s fine,” he parrotted automatically.

“I’ve taken the matter to heart and although the circumstances are unfortunate, I can assure you that they were not malicious, and will not be recurring.”

“Great.”

The atmosphere was heavy as Dumbledore turned to face him more fully. Harry could see out of the corner of his eye the way those garish robes twinkled in the light as the Headmaster moved. “Is anything the matter, my boy?”

Harry looked up, face blank. “No sir.”

Dumbledore sat back again. “Was there anything further you wanted to add to your statement, Harry?”

As if this entire situation wasn’t just a ploy. The corner of Harry’s lip twitched downward. “No sir.”

“Well,” with an elegant flourish of his wrist, the quill stopped writing and packed itself away. The parchment, littered with inconsequential dictation, combusted in a manner reminiscent of Fawkes’s periodic burnings. With a twitch of a finger, the ash dissipated into the air and Dumbledore wiped his hands together, although not a speck of dust had touched them. It was symbolic. Dumbledore was washing his hands of Harry’s _drama_. “If everything is settled, I’d like to get to the reason I summoned the two of you here this evening.”

Harry’s eyes darted toward Snape before fixing themselves in the Headmaster’s direction. “Another mission?” he predicted, unable to infuse his words with enthusiasm.

“One of a more delicate matter,” Dumbledore impressed. “But important, nonetheless. I am entrusting the both of you to comport yourselves with subtlety and sensibility.”

Snape spoke up, then. “If I may draw attention to the fact that Mr. Potter has demonstrated neither of those qualities…”

“Then that is all the more reason that he should learn from someone who has them, hm?” Dumbledore overruled him, lifting his eyebrows. “He is, after all, within a period of probation, in which you are tasked with enforcing his progress, are you not?”

The professor was quiet for a moment, expression sour. “Of course.”

“I would suggest you not lose sight of your goal, then, Severus.”

That was as direct and as blatant a warning that Harry had ever heard leveled at Snape. The sight of the man’s muted displeasure was on some level vindicating, but did not make up for recent events.

Nevertheless, the Headmaster did not dwell long on this point. “I will need you both to make for Cardiff. There is a family whose child has gone missing, who have graciously allowed their home to be connected to the Floo network. You will question them, amass any clues about the missing child’s whereabouts, and report them to me immediately.”

Harry frowned. “Er, that’s well enough, I guess, but what’s that got to do with the war?”

“The child is born of non-magical parents. Disappearances of this sort have always been common, but I would like to be certain that there is no connection to our enemy.”

 _Our enemy_. The phrase seemed more chilling somehow, when spoken so calmly. He glanced at Snape again, skeptical.

“Why us?” Harry questioned. _Can’t see how a grade-A arsehole and a Hogwarts student could be much help._

“It is a low-risk mission,” was the explanation. “And too, Professor Snape is our most skilled expert at amassing intelligence and interacting with people.”

 _Seriously?_ “Right, sure,” Harry said, lacking the energy to argue that ludicrous point.

“You would do well to watch closely, and learn, Harry. That is, after all, the purpose of these excursions.”

“Watch. Learn. Stay out of the way,” he replied, resentful. “Got it.”

“And, perhaps,” Dumbledore urged him with a worried look, “curb some of your opinions regarding Professor Snape, in the spirit of cooperation? It is only for a few hours, you understand.”

Only a few hours in the company of a Death Eater. Only a few hours of pretending Hermione wasn’t in the Hospital Wing. Only a few hours of playing nice with the enemy. _Our enemy_. What a cruel joke.

Needless to say, Harry refused to respond to that.

Upon arrival via Floo, Harry’s foot caught on a hard edge, landing him face-first on the carpeted floor. The green fire subsided as he groaned, lifting himself up by his arms, face red.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! Is he alright--!”

“Do not trouble yourself with my companion’s clumsiness,” Snape’s voice sounded above, calm. “He will recover shortly.”

Something -- someone -- approached, hovering just above him. Bit embarrassing for this to be his first impression, he thought with a frown. He had barely registered the presence nearby when it receded back where it came from. The puzzling interaction, or lack thereof, was quickly explained.

“Sorry,” a feminine voice whispered nearby. “I’m just-- You really travel by fireplace…?”

Using the shag carpet as an anchor, Harry wrenched himself up, dusting the ash off his robes. Lifting his eyes, he took in the quick impression of a clean, warmly-lit room, and two figures, one man and one woman, standing behind a large sectioned sofa as it acted as a moat between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape beat him to it.

“Apologies-- If we had realized it would cause you distress, we would have arrived via more conventional means.”

His attention snapped to the professor. What on Earth was that _weird_ tone? He sounded… _friendly_ , and the pitch of it was downright disturbing-- especially to ears which had only ever heard the man grumble and sneer!

“Would’ve saved me having to vacuum later,” the woman joked in a tone that contained no humor at all. Her smile was lopsided: polite but forced. “It’s fine, though. We appreciate how prompt you are.”

Snape stood straight with shoulders relaxed, none of his usual looming presence in evidence. Harry noticed that he was holding a notebook of some kind (did he have it in Dumbledore’s office before?), and his hair was tied back with a simple band. Despite such small changes, he was the very picture of someone that Harry didn’t recognize. He seemed more a stranger than the two others who stood in the room. When the man opened his mouth, further shocks were in store. “Not to worry; your home will be left as clean as before we found it. We are, after all, here to lessen your burdens, not add to them.”

Her husband shook his head. “Please don’t bother yourself. Your time is better spent on other tasks, yeah?”

“Charlie.”

“I just mean I want to get on with it!” he said, defensive. “Wasted enough time already.”

“Let's proceed, then,” Snape replied, looking about. “Is there a comfortable space to talk?”

“We are in the living room, aren’t we?”

“ _Charlie_ ,” the woman warned again.

“ _Sasha_ ,” he shot back, affect flat.

Harry’s eyes darted between everyone, feeling as if he were in a dream when Snape merely replied with a pleasant: “As you wish.”

The professor walked past, moving toward the far edge of the sofa. “If you would both have a seat, we can begin.”

The two of them did, though they sat a good distance apart from one another. The woman, Sasha, took a moment to situate herself, rearranging the various pillows to suit her taste, whereas Charlie dropped onto the cushions like a stone, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together, taut. When Snape did not immediately speak, Harry assumed he was included in this order. Shuffling over to a nearby armchair, he placed himself into it gingerly, watching the proceedings with apprehension.

Now that he was more recovered from his rocky entrance, he could more properly assess his surroundings. They were, indeed, in a living room, cozily furnished and brightly lit, despite the late hour. He could see that the entrance from which they’d arrived was very small, and looked more like an oven than a fireplace. What was more, it was raised about a foot from the ground. Harry grimaced at the sight of it, his knees and shoulder still smarting from his fall. It was a wonder he’d made it there at all, from the size of that tiny grate!

Though the fireplace was small, the mantelpiece was large, spanning the height of the wall and made of a rich, cherry wood. Beside that was a television inset between two lightly-decorated shelves, a haphazard stack of VHS exercise tapes, and a wicker basket filled with blankets. There were many pictures and vases lined up around the room, including the little table to Harry’s right, where a metal analog clock and a still photo of two smiling teenage girls sat.

Snape brandished his notebook, pulling a pen from his cloak and drawing Harry’s attention once more. Nonplussed, Harry remarked: “You know what a pen is?”

The two sitting adjacent both sent him identical bewildered looks. Snape raised both eyebrows. “My companion is referring to my usual habit of using a pencil,” he replied, blithe as could be.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh… Just a bit of a… joke.” That’s what this whole thing felt like, anyway: more and more absurd by the second. He’d met loads of wizards who were baffled by innocuous concepts like pens or rubber ducks! It wasn't so far fetched!

But, then again, these people were Muggles. It’s not like they had much experience with magical people, or like they really wanted to. Just look at how they’d reacted to something simple like the Floo-- it was like watching a polite version of the Dursley’s horrific repulsion.

The room was uncomfortably silent for a moment before Snape turned his gaze to the other two in the room directly. “Let us begin with introductions. I am Inspector Prince, and this is my subordinate, Mr. Barrett.”

He froze, frowning. Was that supposed to be him? Would have been nice to know ahead of time that they were supposed to have fake names; though, Harry mused, that probably went without saying, considering who he was.

The man’s eyes raked over him, perched over his conjoined fingers. There was a moment of deliberation before he accused: “Bit young, isn’t he?”

“Charlie, honestly.”

His stare shifted toward his wife as Snape rattled off his answer. “Our office sees merit in granting apprentices on-the-job training.”

“Oh, _lovely_ , happy to know we can be a bloody case study for you--”

“Jesus Christ.” When Harry looked at her, Sasha’s head was shoved into her palms with great exasperation.

Charlie's body twisted toward her. “What? It’s true! And I told you this would happen. First that debacle with the Constable, and now this? What would these people care about our Violet? Sending us some rubbish, dog-eared ‘inspector’ and his _intern--_ ”  
  
“I’m sorry for my husband,” she cut in, leaning forward. “He’s stressed. We both are. But we appreciate the help.” Charlie slumped, attitude decidedly sullen.

“Let me assure you both, our office is taking your case very seriously,” Snape emphasized, taking up a position standing beside the fireplace. “Now, we are aware of your initial statement, but, in the interest of thoroughness, please outline the day of your daughter’s disappearance for the official record.”

Surprisingly, it was Charlie who spoke up. “The day? Was Saturday. We were all up for an early breakfast, but then I had work to do in the study -- I'm a database programmer for Automsoft. That was a big chunk of my day, so I’m not sure where Vi was--”

“We all kept to ourselves really,” Sasha cut in. “He was working, I was cleaning. Violet helped me sort out the laundry, but when her sister woke up, she spent a good bit of time upstairs with her.” She stopped a moment, staring down at her hands. “Her-- Her sister is Callie. She’s staying with us right now while her husband is on tour, since she couldn’t go traveling while pregnant and-- it’s been rough, lots of accommodations you understand, but Violet has been incredibly gracious.”

Snape nodded, scribbling down a note of some kind. “Did she go anywhere else that day?”

“I don’t _think_ she did,” the woman murmured. “I may have heard her make a few phone calls, but she likes to stay in on weekends.”

“Yeah,” Charlie uttered, leaning back on the sofa. “We’ve been doing these activities with her since she's been home, with a group we joined about four months back. They had an art exhibition on and Violet was counting on it. Thing was, when we were near ready to go, Callie had a sudden health scare. She’s at the end stages of her pregnancy, y’know, and we don’t want to take risks. So we were off to hospital, just to make sure things were okay, but Violet was mighty upset about it.”

“She wanted us to reconsider, but that's our grandbaby on the line! Can't just ignore something like that.”

“Exactly,” her husband agreed. “And that was around-- what time was it? Six?”

She nodded. “Nearly, yes.”

“I just know it was seven by the time we got to hospital,” he concluded, looking back to Snape. “We didn’t make it home until about half eight. House was dark, Vi wasn't in her room. We weren't too worried, because--”

“Because sometimes she takes walks, see?” his wife interjected. “To clear her head? And it was the first big argument we’ve had for a while--”

“So, Sasha rang her mobile but she didn’t pick up. But, y’know, fair's fair. We knew she was angry, but she's not irresponsible. Gave her about ten minutes before calling again--”

“-- I think I called her about three times --”

“-- that’s when we knew something was wrong and we called for the police.”

During this recitation, Snape had been writing vigorously. Without missing a beat, he said, “I see. And I assume the police did not react favorably?”

“‘She’s sixteen,’ they said,” Sasha recounted, derisive. “‘Fully allowed to go missing if she likes.’”

“Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

The professor nodded. “Hence your contacting the Wizarding authorities.”

“Only way we could make sure that someone would start looking for her.”

“So, this art exhibition,” Snape changed direction. “Where was it going to be held?”

Charlie’s frown was puzzled. “I don’t-- Sasha, do you?”

“Uhm. Oh! I think I still have the brochure somewhere. Hold on.”

The woman disappeared to the next room, the sound of shuffling papers the only indicator of her progress. Harry expected Snape to wait for her to return, but he didn’t. “Does your daughter have any friends nearby?” he inquired, glancing up from the page.

“Some,” he answered. “But we’ve already called them. None of them have had any contact with her since the night she disappeared.”

“I will need their names.”

“Sure… I’ll have to call their parents first to see if they’re alright with that but, sure.”

Harry’s lip curled. “Why?” he blurted, annoyed.

“Pardon?” Charlie asked, sounding affronted.

“You want to find your daughter, why wouldn’t you just say who her friends are?” Harry accused. “I mean it’s an obvious question. Even if they haven’t seen her, they might know better than you where she might be.”

“Do you have children, kid?” Charlie asked, squinting hard.

“No…?” What kind of question was that?

“Then maybe you should curb your observations to what you know best.”

What he knew best? He knew plenty about this! When Ginny went missing in second year, it would have done her loads of good if anyone had bothered paying better attention! None of the adults had noticed a thing as she was slowly being possessed by a madman!

Point in fact: Harry went missing all the time at the Dursleys, and they hardly cared one whit. A day without him was a boon. And if these people weren’t doing everything in their power to find their daughter, then they may as well be sitting on their thumbs!

“I may not look it,” Harry countered, tone a touch sour. “But I know a thing or two about finding people who are lost.”

Charlie turned to look at Snape. “Is this a bloody joke?”

Before Snape could answer, however, Sasha entered the room again, holding a bright purple pamphlet in her hand. “Buried under some chinese takeaway, stupid thing-- here, though. The information about the exhibition is on the second fold.”

She passed it into Snape’s outstretched fingers before resuming her place on the couch, the disruption tempering the unease of the room. Snape’s eyes passed over the brochure for only a brief moment before he looked up once more.

“London? That is two hours by train, is it not?”

“Just about, yes,” Sasha answered.

Snape squinted at his notes, tapping his chin with the pen. “Does your daughter own any magical forms of transport?”

“Nothing like brooms or such,” Charlie answered. “But ah-- she knew how to do that thing. What was it called? Abration--?”  
  
“Aparison?” Sasha chimed in, biting her lip.

“Apparition,” Snape smoothly corrected. “Though, seeing as your daughter is sixteen, she would not be licensed to perform such magic.”

“Right, well, that’s all she knew how to do.”

“Were you aware if she had any friends from school who may have met with her?”

An embittered laugh boomed from Charlie. “What, you too?”

The professor’s eyebrows rose, uttering only an obtuse, “Hm?” Harry ducked his head, not wanting a repeat of the man’s earlier critiques to surface.

However, Charlie leaned forward, scowling. “My daughter didn’t run away. She wouldn’t run away from home.”

“I merely wish to ascertain whether or not she could have been in contact with those able to provide a means for magical travel. This information will determine the search area.”

Yeah, and the options were “nearby” or “literally anywhere”, Harry thought. That hardly narrowed anything down.

“Charlie, would it matter?” Sasha piped up.

“What?”

“Would it matter? Kidnapped? Run away? Either way, she’s gone. It’s better to know all our options. If she ran away, so what? It’s still worth looking into.”

He didn’t answer, his sneer enduring as Sasha turned to look at Snape, earnest. “Inspector, I don’t know anything about her magical friends. It’s possible she kept in contact. I can give you her number so you can cross reference it with the phone company, see who she’s been calling. If that would help?”

Harry very much doubted that her magical friends even knew what mobile phones were, considering the Wizarding World’s affection for owl post. These people had a daughter who was magical, and they didn’t even know that much?

He was beginning to dislike them more and more.

And then there was Snape, patient as can be. Not a snide word or cutting barb to be found, despite how obviously clueless those two were. The sound of his “pleasant” voice was beginning to sicken Harry. “That would be helpful, yes,” was his agreeable reply. “And the landline as well, to cover all bases.”

“Okay,” Sasha exhaled into her hands as they wrung themselves, though her words seemed more directed to herself than an answer to Snape. “Okay.”

Harry looked on as Charlie’s gaze darted between his wife’s crestfallen expression and Snape’s businesslike facade. “We did a cursory search on Saturday,” he offered, evidently deciding to make himself useful. “Some of the neighbors pitched in, bless ‘em. We did a good sweep of the neighborhood and a few places in town. Areas she normally frequents, you know, the usual. Did as much as we could with the amount of hands we had.”

Harry’s reaction was doubtful. Caustic. “And where is it you think she ‘normally’ goes?”

Charlie’s glower was withering when his face made the slow pendulum swing in Harry’s direction. “What’d you say your name was again? Barrett?”

“N--” He let out a breath. “ _Yeah_. What of it?”

“Well _Mr._ Barrett. I’m already well aware of what you think of me. Your angle. Where do I _think_ she normally goes? Because I don’t know my daughter, right? That’s what you’re getting at? That I’m such a shite father that my daughter has squirreled away this secret life from me, just waiting for the moment she could burst away to her freedom? That’s what you think, right?”  
  
“Charlie, for the love of god--”  
  
“Shut it, Sasha!” The bellow radiated from him with such potency that it pummeled the entire room into an uneasy quiet. His hands were white knuckling his knees and when Sasha relented, sitting back against her fortress of couch pillows, he turned his gaze to Harry again.

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” he prompted, his voice lowering to a quiet drone.

Harry’s chest swelled, and his hands were balled into fists. “Why shouldn’t I?” he countered.

Snape attempted to cut in, a sharp glare aimed directly at him. “That is quite enough from you--”

“Let me tell you a thing or two about my family,” Charlie stated in a dangerous tone. “Let me tell you a thing or two about what it’s like to have it thrust on you, out of nowhere, that your daughter is not only magical, but that there exists an entire fucking _world_ that has been there the entire bloody time, and she has to be a part of it, regardless of what _you_ want. Doesn’t matter if it means sending your youngest off to god knows where in the bell end of Scotland with no means to keep in contact, for longer than you want her to be gone. It’d be too _convenient_ to actually provide _resources_ \-- better to let you just take this information and _drown_ in it!”

The man’s expression was brimming with disgust. He instinctively shrank back as the man collected his energies in order to spew them in Harry’s face. “And let’s not forget when your little girl comes home after an entire bloody year _alone_ , spending nights crying over things you don’t understand, because there’s an entire _culture_ with politics and nuance that she’s not even _equipped_ to begin explaining to you! So you’re bloody helpless-- nothing at all to do but hold her. And that’s not enough. Years go by, and she’s getting used to being separate from you and your family. Not a damn thing you can do about that, either. Then, she’s graduated, aimless-- no opportunity, no prospects… rejected from one world on the basis of pedigree, and no credentials to get by in this one! You begin to think that bloody school she was _forced_ to attend was a colossal waste of time! But you do your damnest to be there for her, to make sure she knows that no one thinks badly of her because she’s having a harder time figuring things out -- she’s sixteen, for chrissake, how is she supposed to know what she wants to do?

“But then, there’s help,” the words poured out of him, breathless. “Finally, after all these years, there’s help, with people who know what you’ve gone through, who understand what it’s like to be in your position. And you’re finally seeing progress -- real, _actual_ , progress. You’re seeing her smile for the first time in years. You’re actually able to understand the things she’s talking about, you’re able to actually give her solace, advice, a way to move forward. Then there’s just one night -- _one_ night when that goes tits up, because of circumstance. And you come home and your little girl is… gone.

“I know very well what you and your kind think of me, my family, my daughter.” Tears misted in his eyes and he swiped his thumb under his nose. “But my Violet didn’t run away,” he said, adamant, his voice a quivering warning. “She didn’t.”

There was a heavy, stunned silence following his statements. His wife was quite affected, her hand over her mouth, hair falling across her wrist as her posture drooped. Harry himself couldn’t meet the man’s eyes, instead casting his gaze off to the side. He wasn’t sure how to feel, but what could he say to that, really?

He made the mistake of looking at Snape. The professor was staring straight at him, his glare in full force. The message was undeniable. _Keep your mouth shut_.

Then, he watched as Snape schooled his expression, turning it toward the couple. “Mr. Ayers--”

“Do you have any other questions?” the man asked, tear stricken, but somehow utterly composed. “Or do you have what you need to commence your investigation?”

A moment passed in quiet as Snape formulated his answer. “We… will be in touch,” he murmured, closing his notebook and stowing away his pen. “We will not trouble you further tonight.”

Charlie’s head turned in a slow, agonizing creak toward his wife. “Sasha. The numbers.”

The butt of her palm maneuvered in front of her eyes as she let out a covert sniffle, leaning forward to search the coffee table for something to write with. There was an excruciating silence when she found none, skirting the same empty patches of glass, until Snape leaned forward to offer his. When she took it, it was with a shaky hand, as she pulled the purple pamphlet toward her and wrote a sequence of numbers across the figures at the bottom.

“Thank you,” the professor said, taking both objects from the woman’s hands. Then, his shrewd eye landed on Harry. “Now, come.”

“But--”  
  
“ _Come_.”

Harry’s legs obeyed and he trailed after Snape, resolving to stare down at the back of the man’s boots. They did not return through the fireplace, as he had supposed they would; the professor led them straight out the front door, across the short driveway, and down the lane.

The night sky was littered with stars, but they were hard to make out with all the city lights. Still, the street was quiet enough, lined with houses that were huddled together, conspiring, solemn watchmen keeping eye on the figures as they passed. When they had walked about a block, Harry burst out, “Where are you going?!”

Snape stopped short, swinging himself around to face Harry. The sudden movement was alarming, but not as much as the man’s expression. “I must now locate a proper place to Apparate from because of _your_ indiscretion!”

“What are you talking about? We could have used the Floo again!”

“Are you simple?” Snape spat. “Your plan, in all your infinite wisdom, is to further disturb and antagonize the members of that family?”

Well, when he put it like _that_ … “No!” Harry’s brow furrowed and he rubbed his hands together. “It’s just… We would be gone in two seconds. It’s not a big deal--”

“For those unaccustomed to watching people disappear, it would indeed be a ‘big deal’,” the man sneered back at him. “It is fascinating to see that, despite your apparent unequivocal devotion to the Muggleborn cause, you seem to have very little understanding of what that means.”

“I do understand!” Harry barked, raising his voice. “I grew up around Muggles my whole life!”

Snape performed a derisive snort, turning heel and walking off once more. “That so? You could have fooled me.”

Catching up with the man, Harry snarled: “Don’t act all high and mighty! You were the one lying right to their faces! Acting like you’re _so_ nice and considerate!”

“Yes-- that was clearly an unacceptable violation; I ought to have taken your example of _insulting_ them, hm? Surely that would have accomplished our goal.”

“Well, what kind of parent just assumes they know everything about their kid like that? Like they’re the only bloody authority? He can’t know for sure that she didn’t run away-- He’s defending his pride, not his daughter!”

Snape rounded on him once more, encroaching on Harry’s space uncomfortably, his gaze sharp as he looked down his nose. “And what is it you think _you_ are doing?”

Harry’s breath fell out of him and he looked up at the other man with trepidation. Though the professor did not advance, he took a small step backward to regain a safe distance, the side of his mouth twitching downward.

The man gave a disdainful sniff, straightening his back. Harry glared at him before saying: “Don’t pretend like you care about these people anyway. You’re only doing this because Dumbledore told you to.”

“At least I can do that much,” Snape countered, tone frosty. “You, on the other hand, are of no use at all.”

“At least I have _morals_.”

“What use are morals in wartime?” was Snape’s waspish reply. “Morals do not solve problems, nor do they protect you from your enemies.”

“Yeah, but they make me _different_ from my enemies,” Harry argued, fists clenched at his sides. “I’d rather die a good man than live a _shite_ one.”

“Intriguing philosophy coming from someone who just told a distraught father that he did not care about his child.”

His headache was rapidly returning. “Well, how can they? Their daughter is graduated from Hogwarts, but they’re still freaked out by the Floo? It doesn’t make sense!”

Snape shoved something against his chest, and he flinched back, only to find that it was the pamphlet from earlier. He hesitated, “What--?”

“ _Look_ at it, you imbecile.”

He would rather have refused in his rebellious state, but found himself looking down at the paper in his hands instead. The front was a deep purple, with a glowing logo of interlocking black and white rings emblazoned upon it. Below the logo was a name: “Concordia…?”

“An organization for Muggleborns and their families, to help them connect to the magical world,” Snape elucidated as he folded his arms. “That ‘group’ Mr. Ayers was attending? They were meetings from this organization.”

Harry flipped open the brochure, eyes skimming over the contents. “The art exhibition…” he muttered with recognition.

“You grew up with Muggles, did you not? How familiar are you with their world? Do you know how to drive a car? Use a mobile? Manage money? Apply for a job?”

“Er… well…”

“Have you any credentials which allow you access to healthcare? Travel? Education? Do you understand their government, their laws, or their customs?”

Harry was silent, meeting Snape’s gaze.

“... No? Then it stands to reason why they would not understand our world either.”

With a sigh, Harry asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are a fool,” was Snape’s scathing judgment. “You would rather alienate our only source of information due to some perceived barbarism than skew the truth in an effort to conduct a proper investigation.”

“What do you care about a proper investigation?” he replied.

The man ignored his question, instead saying, “What do you propose we tell them? That we are members of a secret organization, and we were merely wondering if their daughter might have been murdered by dark wizards? How well do you suppose that would have gone over?”

“You don’t have to take it that far…” Harry grumbled.

“The troublesome thing about _morals_ is that people like you only seem to have them for your own benefit,” the professor snarled. “I perform my job efficiently, doing whatever is necessary to succeed. What exactly did your pedantic groanings accomplish?”

Loathe as he was to admit it, the man had a point. He _hated_ that he had a point, but the fact remained. All Harry had really done was aggravate the people they were supposed to be questioning. It was just… they had reminded him so starkly of the Dursleys… But that was foolishness too, wasn’t it? The pamphlet he was holding told him so; even if they were pretty out of touch with the magical world, this at least proved they were trying, didn’t it? That was more than the Dursleys had ever done.

Fingering the brochure in his hands, Harry sighed, feeling as if his frown might etch onto his face permanently at this rate. “I get it, okay?” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

“I said _okay_! You’re right! It was bloody stupid to pick a fight with a bloke who’s worried about his daughter! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The professor stared at him, unmoving, before his next words leisurely emerged from his mouth. “You do realize your actions have severely shortened the allotted time we have to investigate? That you’ve completely squandered a hard won lead?”

“Great. Rub it in.”

The man’s lip curled. “Any discomfort you feel is a consequence of your own failings.”

Harry erupted in a short, mirthless laugh. “Oh, yeah? Going to tell me again how Hermione got what was coming to her? Don’t think I forgot.”

Snape’s expression blanked entirely and he walked off, leaving Harry in the cold once more. With an exasperated sigh, he moved forward, struggling to keep up with the man’s brutal pace.

“You pushed her to take that potion! You _provoked_ her! And what’s more, she knew that if she didn’t, I would fail outright!” he pelted the accusation at Snape’s back.

“Granger knew your potion was abysmal and she took it anyway.”

“I’m sure she thought she could grin and bear it! Then at least I’d have a fair shake at having any grade at all!”

“As I said--”

“And I’m sure that, laughable as it is, she trusted _you_ , as our _teacher_ , not to goad her into injuring herself!”

For a long moment, the only sounds between them were their footsteps and Harry’s heavy breaths. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to defend Hermione in this moment, especially considering the circumstance. What did Snape care about her, or any of them? Aside from Slytherins, he’d never seen Snape offer the barest of considerations to anyone. At least not _honestly_.

The professor made a sharp turn into an alcove, causing Harry to rush to catch up. Rounding the corner, he found the man simply standing in partial shadow, eyes locked on his. When Snape spoke, his words were measured and stark. “Listen carefully, _Boy Who Lived_. While you continue to divert the matter at hand so you can bemoan the past, casting about for anyone to blame, a girl could be dying as we speak. We were sent to investigate the possibility of _Death Eater_ involvement in her disappearance, which means there is a very real chance that every second wasted adds to this girl’s suffering, and increases the likelihood that she will never return to her parents.”

Harry shivered, the air around him suddenly feeling several degrees colder. The sinister figure before him exhibited such expertise at terror that he could easily be mistaken for a boggart. And how could he deny this plain truth: That a girl could be dead because of him, simply because they didn’t know enough to be able to find her?

He felt frozen, and Snape resumed his diatribe with heated energy while Harry’s stomach twisted in knots. “You want to be respected? You want to be an Order member? Thus far, all you have managed to exhibit is an impetuous attitude and a reckless contempt for anyone but yourself. You disregard the sacrifices made, the lives put on the line to provide us this single thread of opportunity.”

His heart was an unrelenting drumbeat in his ears. The lives put on the line…? Well, of course. That family didn’t know about the Order-- that went without saying. They must have contacted the Ministry, except then the questioning would have been done by their personnel… Which meant that there were people who had covered this up. Order members who had risked their jobs, possibly risked imprisonment, to allow for an investigation without Ministry interference.

And he’d gone and mucked it up, hadn’t he?

Snape took an encroaching step forward. The menacing drone of his voice seeped under Harry’s skin, painful. “You contribute nothing to this cause but a symbol. A child who merely plays at adulthood, failing to assume the full weight of it, will never survive this war.”

Harry had no reply, no counterarguments to offer. Just oppressive static in his mind. He felt scrubbed raw as the man drew nearer, his arm raising up with such speed that Harry anticipated a blow. There wasn’t one-- Snape was merely beckoning for them to Apparate away, but the dread and anguish which went along with his instinct did not dissipate.

He didn’t say a single word after that. Not when they disappeared from Cardiff, nor throughout their entire report to Dumbledore.

Funny enough, the Headmaster didn’t seem to care.

Charms was a strange affair without Hermione. Ron wasn’t in class either, and hadn’t even shown up to Transfiguration that morning; he’d developed a nasty habit of skipping lessons of late, but Harry was certain that their charged discussion the day before hadn’t helped matters. Perhaps it was for the best, since Harry wasn’t sure how he was going to explain to Ron that he’d been able to accomplish nothing.

Truth be told, he wasn’t feeling his best either. After a sleepless night, he felt more a ghost than a person, floating from place to place with sluggish initiative. Maybe he should have gone Ron’s route and not come at all, but his body seemed determined to keep his schedule, even if his brain was far removed.

In such a state, he found himself unexpectedly paired with Croft for the entirety of class time, Professor Flitwick’s primary explanation being that both their regular partners were not in attendance. Harry’s displeasure was dull, and he did not complain, merely transferring himself across the room to sit beside her with a detached obedience.

Following the lecture, _Emergency Healing Procedures_ was written on the blackboard behind the professor, and Harry grimaced at the instructions listed below. _Incision spell to partner’s forearm, inspect with visualization charm, clean the wound, bandage it, and send up a homing flare with a message attached._

Harry cast his gaze toward his partner. Croft’s profile was stoic, focused. She didn’t acknowledge his attention at all. Considering their previous encounters, he supposed she couldn’t be faulted for that. “Guess you get to cut me open today,” he commented, breezy. “So. There’s that to look forward to.”

The look she shot him was scornful and familiar; he couldn't help but think of Charlie. “I’m not, actually.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “What?”

“I'm not cutting you.”

His eyes darted between the board and her frigid expression. “Er… It’s in the instructions, you know?”

“I can read, yeah,” she returned, acerbic. “But I can't do the spell.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I just can't do it? How else do I explain?” she asked, incredulous.

Harry was just as confused as she was. “Do you just not know the incantation?”

She frowned. “It has nothing to do with the incantation, no.”

“Then…?”

“It doesn't work when I--” she stopped short, exhaling. “Watch.”

With that, she lifted her wand and took hold of his forearm with her other hand. Without preamble, she pressed the tip against his skin.

“ _Abscindo,_ ” she commanded, and…

Nothing. He braced himself for the sting, but nothing came. “Uh… That’s… odd. Isn’t it?” The spell was about as rudimentary as one could expect. Say the words, draw with the wand, and a simple cut would form. Easy. Painless, even, provided that nothing vital was disturbed.

So why…?

“Yeah, well, I'm used to it.”

Harry frowned. “This happen a lot?”

“Every time I do a spell of this nature,” she recounted.

His stare fell down to his arm. “Suppose it’s up to me,” he concluded. “Who shall I injure first?”

She proffered her forearm, fingers already balled into a fist. “Just get on with it.”

“Right.” Gripping his wand, he laid the tip at the center of her forearm. “ _Abscindo._ ”

Dragging the wood a few inches, a cut unfurled her skin. It was honestly a bit unnerving, to purposely injure his classmate like this… especially when she didn’t even flinch. There was a solemn energy between the two of them.

“Did that hurt?” he found himself asking, searching for any kind of reaction.

“I guess,” she murmured, unconvincing, her eyes focused on the redness that began to swell and rise from the wound. “You better hurry. I don’t want there to be a mess.”

“Yeah…” He didn’t think he could handle a gruesome cleanup just then. “ _Intus Videre_.”

From the surface of the girl’s arm, a glowing form shimmered into view. Hovering directly above was a copy of her arm, made up of colored lines to represent different parts of her anatomy. The bones and skin were most obviously recognizable, the former a light cyan hue and the latter a thin outline of yellow. Then, the blood vessels branched across the whole of the arm, each tributary gleaming with bright silver light. At the spot where he’d cut her, he could see the incision parting the yellow line, and a pool of silver was gently welling up atop it.

She appeared transfixed by the display. “Just a few millimeters above my brachial artery,” she murmured, distant. “Didn’t go that deep, did you -- just barely hit the dermis.”

He shot her a look. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

“Probably not,” she mused, the fingers on her wounded arm uncurling as she relaxed. The glance she offered him was cursory before she leaned forward, pointing at the image. “See this large silver line, starts from the humerus, snakes beside the elbow, heading for the ulna here? That’s the brachial artery.”

If she hadn’t visually pointed it out, he would still have no clue what she meant. With a quirked eyebrow, he observed, “Sounds like you’re off speaking in a separate language.”

“Whatever,” she brushed off, leaning back in her seat. “I think it’s neat.”

Rather than reply, Harry continued on to the next spell, using a simple _Tergeo_ to siphon the blood away from her arm and onto a bit of spare parchment on the table. Then, hesitating for a short moment as he tried to remember the incantation, he bandaged her arm.

After that, he glanced back at the chalkboard. “I know how to set up a flare, but when did we learn about homing flares?” he remarked with a frown.

“It was in the chapter we were assigned last weekend,” she reminded him. “Did you do the reading?”

Harry grimaced. If he remembered correctly, he’d done a lot of skimming. “Sort of. It’s a two-part incantation, I remember.”

“Sort of,” she repeated, appearing a great deal like she wanted to say something more, but refrained from doing so. While flexing the fingers on her bandaged arm, she grasped her wand and swirled it up toward the ceiling. “ _Remigro!_ ”

A burst of blue light shot from her wand like a shooting star, its tail wavering as it slowed its ascent and turned toward its intended target, which was evidently Harry himself. Dropping back the way it came, it landed on the desk beside him with a sizzling thump, dissipating entirely within a second.

“And to attach the message, you’ve got to write it ahead of time, to send it with the flare,” Harry recited, the passage coming back to him. Ripping off a section of their spare parchment, he poised his quill over it, just then remembering: “Oh, er… I’m supposed to write your full name.”

She sighed, eyes closing. “C-L-Y,” she recited, jaded. “T-E-M,” she paused opening her eyes once more so she could watch his hand. “N-E-S-T-R-A.”

What a mouthful. “Clytem...nestra Croft?” he read out as he finished writing.

“That’s me,” she replied, casual, as she shrugged.

He finished writing out the information that Flitwick required, namely her house and his own name, before casting the spell at the scrap of parchment in his hand. As the blue light hit it, Harry swirled the flare upward into the air, releasing control of the spell just before it hit the ceiling, and allowing it to find its own way to the target: the professor himself.

Holding up the parchment that Harry had sent to him, Flitwick squeaked, “Very good, Mr. Potter! Switch off now!”

Nodding, more to himself than anyone else, he pulled up the sleeve of his robe and made a cut on himself. Except-- _ouch_ , that was a bit deeper than he’d have liked. He hissed in a breath, brows drawn low as he offered his bleeding arm to his partner.

She hesitated a lot less than he had, the glowing image of his anatomy floating up in an instant, as her fingers stabilized his arm so that the rivulets forming wouldn’t begin to drip over onto the desk. “Wait-- _Jesus_ , kid. A bandage isn’t-- hold on.”

He watched as she cleaned the blood away, but added in a soft _Episkey_ , his sinew stitching itself together again and closing into an inflamed line.

“ _Ferula_ ,” she concluded and a bandage coiled, snake-like, around his forearm.

“That was… efficient,” Harry commented.

“Happy to impress,” she responded, bored.

Was this awkward? This was pretty awkward. Harry cleared his throat, scratching the side of his head and looking out across the classroom as Croft wrote out her own note for the flare. The last time they had spoken, he’d said some… _reckless_ things, to borrow a phrase from Snape. So, of course this encounter was never going to be pleasant.

It was strange, even. Because she was a Slytherin, everything she did was normally colored differently in his mind, but-- after last night, and after sitting beside her for the whole of class time, she just seemed… normal. A touch short with him, maybe, but he’d been pretty short with her before, too. She had yet to make any snide remarks or sabotage him in classes, though they shared four of them. Not to mention, having watched her bandage his arm in under a minute, yet also witnessing her complete inability to cast the first spell, his assumption that she’d been lying about needing tutoring seemed unfounded.

“That’s that, then.”

At the center of the classroom, Flitwick waved in their direction to signal that he’d received the message. Harry hadn’t even noticed her send the flare.

“Must be more tired than I thought,” he mumbled with a sigh.

Her response was a noncommittal hum as she leaned over to gather her things into her bag, idly scratching the bandage on her arm. Supposing he should do the same, Harry haphazardly stuffed his quill and Charms text into his own bag, fighting with the strap as it became entangled underneath the large book.

The class was coming to a close, and there was a sort of nagging feeling itching inside his brain, the feeling that he ought to say something important. Trouble was, it was hard to parse what it was that he needed so say, or how to say it properly.

The girl sitting beside him was out of her seat the exact moment Flitwick dismissed them. Harry experienced a moment’s startled hesitation before he too made his hasty way out the door. Spotting her blonde head traveling down the hall, he caught up with her in moments.

Of course, now that words had to actually come, he felt quite at a loss. “Er… Hey.”

She seemed thrown off kilter, her stride slowing as she addressed him, off handed: “Hello.”

He clutched the strap of his school bag like a life preserver. “Mind if I walk with you?”

She looked at him, bewildered. “You seem to already be doing so.”

Harry’s shrug was diffident and he let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Right, uh… Guilty.”

“Yep,” the word left her in a stiff exhale.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you, actually,” he stated, looking at the floor.

“Would it even matter to you if I said no?”

“Yes.”

Harry was himself surprised at the quickness of his answer, but it held true. He glanced at the side of her face, but she didn't outwardly react.

“I was going to head out to the greenhouses,” she said abruptly, staring straight ahead.

Harry did not reply, but continued to keep pace with her she traversed the snow-covered grounds. It was in taxed silence that he contemplated what it was he might say, what he was looking for from this conversation. Was it only to apologize? Such a thing might seem disingenuous if he did nothing to reinforce it. Not to mention, he still disliked her attitude toward Professor Tenenbaum, though she had refrained from further open hostility since that first outburst.

In the erratic drift of his thoughts, where he seemed to get no closer to reaching a conclusion the longer he sorted through them, they arrived in one of the greenhouses, his only signal to this being the hard _thud_ of Croft’s bag landing against the side of one of the tables, rousing him to the present.

By the time he looked up at her, she was halfway across the space, her words sneaking in his direction before her body had the chance to face him.

“So, why the sudden urgency to talk?” she asked with a wry twist of the lips. “Not thorough enough of an interrogation last time?”

Harry dropped his bag on the dirt floor, allowing a gust of air to whoosh out of his lungs. “Yeah… about that,” he broached. “You were serious, yeah? About needing tutoring?”

Her head canted and she observed him, eyes keen on him as if trying to pick him apart. “I wasn’t the one who asked for it,” she retorted.

Not really the answer he was looking for, but the question did sort of answer itself, didn’t it? “Right, but-- you could use it.”

“You’re probably right about that,” was her bland, almost surly response.

“Well, then,” he said, his roving gaze focusing back on her, “I shouldn’t have acted like I did. Y’know. Before.”

She leaned back against a glass pane. “Like all but accusing me of selling out Muggleborns to Malfoy?” she saw fit to shove in his face.

“I mean, the point is I don’t really know you,” Harry remarked with a grimace. “And coming out of the gate with all that stuff with Malfoy… I was kind of a prat.”

For the first time, her stare left him, plummeting to the floor as she scraped her foot against the ground, deep in thought. It wasn’t long before she admitted: “I’m not really understanding where this is coming from.”

He shrugged. Obviously, the events of yesterday were off-limits. “I did agree to tutor you, didn’t I?”

“Not for real,” she countered. “And forgive me if I’m wary to accept that over the course of a couple weeks, you had a rapid enough shift in paradigm to explain... this.” She gesticulated vaguely.

“I don’t know.” Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Things happened; I don’t want to talk about it.”

She appeared to consider him for a few moments longer before she tossed her head skyward, sighing. “While I appreciate the gesture,” she began, “this… isn’t going to be necessary.”

Harry lifted his eyebrows, mouth twitching into a frown. “Not necessary? Er-- it was made pretty clear that you are failing Defense.”

“I’m not exactly certain I’m finishing out the term, so…”

“Wait-- really?” he blurted on impulse. That wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting to hear.

“What?” she volleyed back, somehow appearing just as bewildered as he was.

“I mean…” Harry backtracked, his arms falling to his sides. “Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you need N.E.W.T.s or something? For… whatever it is you’re doing?”

“I’m honestly not all that worried about my N.E.W.T.s at the current moment.”

He wasn’t certain why he felt like arguing the point, but the prospect of leaving the school for no discernable reason was… “It’s only a few months into term, and you already want to leave?”

Her expression soured. “And if I do?”

He bristled, sensitive to every slight change in her tone. “Well--” Harry grimaced at the flurry of memories which assaulted him, most containing Hermione and McGonagall, regarding the importance of magical education. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to grasp onto any of them, fleeting and frantic as they were. And that was without making mention of how much he generally hated those lectures when they were directed at him.

“Is this why you left the first time?” Harry questioned, unable to stop himself from voicing the thought. “Because you just… gave up?”

The laugh that spilled from her was virulent. “You sure do love assuming things, don’t you?”

Her words stilled him. “It’s just a question,” he pointed out.

For a moment, the two of them stood like statues in a garden. Harry felt creaky, like his joints weren’t seated properly in his limbs, and he fidgeted, glancing about as if he were searching for an escape route hidden amongst the plants.

Then, the girl crossed the distance between them and Harry felt himself tense, only to let out a breath when he noticed her bend down and pick up the bag she’d left beside the table. He watched as she dug through it, pulling an unfamiliar, well-worn text book from within. In seconds, she flipped the front cover open, pulling out a folded square of paper.

Observing her closely, he could see her face was scrunched in concentration, holding the textbook under her armpit as she used her fingers to unfold the paper. He noticed writing -- a letter maybe? -- but she set it aside. The object of import was evidently what had been hidden _inside_ ; she shoved it his way.

“This is why I left.”

It was a photograph. An old polaroid. He’d seen Aunt Petunia fooling around with disposable cameras before on the few vacations he'd been allowed to attend. There were albums filled with hundreds of pictures of Dudley that had a similar look to the photo in his hand.

However, the nature of this picture was quite different. It was an image characterized by imperfection: there _she_ was, all smiles, hair in disarray across her shoulders as she sat in the back of a vehicle. The lighting was a touch dim, the colors tinged with an early morning hue, and the seat was strewn with miscellaneous clutter, including a crumpled bag of takeaway, a pale green blanket, and a stack of papers. Croft’s arms were bundled at her chest, where there lay... a newborn, with sleepy eyes and puffy cheeks.

Harry blinked. His eyes darted between the two faces in the photo, unable to process. Then, he glanced up at the girl next to him, surveying her determined expression. It was odd, he thought, that in all the months he’d shared classes with her, this photo was the first he’d seen her smile.

Harry looked back at the image in his hand. “Who…?”

With her arms crossed, she glanced down to the floor. Something in her tone shifted, almost imperceptible. Hard to pin down, but undeniably there.

“That,” she uttered, a few strands of hair falling over her eyes, “is my son.”


	6. Little One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated New Year everyone! We hope you all had fun. Here arrives the newest chapter. We hope you enjoy. Thank you, as always, to our lovely betas, who keep us thriving.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 7: Dichotomy

 

“You… have a son,” Potter repeated, slowly, as if the words had entered his ears on a delay.

It wasn’t a surprising development, his bewilderment. She was used to it at this juncture. Out of all the reactions she’d endured when breaking the news to strangers, this particular one was middling.

“Yes I do.”

“You left school to have a baby.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes,” she affirmed, her arms dropping to her sides.

The boy squinted at her. “How’d you manage that?” he blurted, the words clearly traveling directly from impulse to mouth.

“Which part?”

His brows drew downward, expression pained. “Er… The part where you left school and came back.”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted, shrugging.

He proffered the photo in his hands to her and she took hold of it. Then, he commented, “I’ve been told that coming back is not very common.”

“For good reason,” she told him. “It’s pretty hard to bounce back into this life after disruptions like that.”

“Then…” The boy met her eyes. “Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” she found herself saying, staring down at her son’s face as her thumb swiped over the gloss of the photo. There were reasons. None fit to mention to someone she didn’t know, at least. But all the same, she often wondered if those reasons were worth it.

Considering Snape’s disposition, that answer was still a resounding “no.”

Potter scratched the side of his head, more of a listless gesture than a purposeful one. “I don’t really understand you,” the boy remarked.

“Well, you’re not alone in that,” she murmured, glancing up again.

“Isn’t there anything you want to do? You know-- after school.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But it isn’t relegated to just here, you know.”

His head tilted. “How’s that?”

“How else? I can go to uni in the non-magical world, have a life there.”

“Oh.” He was still looking at her oddly. “I guess. Wouldn’t that be kind of hard, as a witch?”

“Why would it be hard?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean…” Potter paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. “Well, you are a Muggleborn, aren’t you?”

Something about his tone set her on edge. “What’s your point?”

“I guess I figured I should actually ask,” he commented, wry. “But I’ve just always thought, you know-- magical people would have a hard time in a world where they don’t really… fit in.”

“ _Understand_ ,” she corrected him, a bit defensive. “They could fit in fine. They just refuse to understand.”

Potter’s expression was instantly puzzled. “Who? The wizards, or the Muggles?”

Bit thick, wasn’t he? “Wizards?”

“Oh-- er, right. Yeah. Of course.”

The sudden lull in the conversation made her feel uneasy and she walked toward the worktable again, carefully folding the photo back into the letter. “So, yeah. No tutoring necessary.”

He was quiet for a moment, unmoving. Then, his voice traveled over the small space between them, standing straight beside her: “Well, if that’s how it is… then… before you go, could you at least tutor me?”

She glanced up from the folded paper in her hand to fit him with a quizzical expression. “What?”

Potter seemed just as surprised as she was. “I can… er, I suppose the thing is, I… I need help in Potions,” he admitted, eyes on the floor. “I don’t really have any friends who care about it, aside from Hermione, but--” He cut himself off with a frown. “Anyway, if I don’t get through this class, I’ll have to give up what I’ve been working for, and I don’t… I don’t really have the kind of options you do.”

It was odd, she thought, to be confronted with the idea that _The Boy Who Lived_ had “plans”. It wasn’t something she’d considered. Nevermind the fact that she’d never really _considered_ him at all before. She wasn’t much for so-called “saviors”. But…

“Pott--” her eyes closed as she shook her head, mouth slanting. “Actually, can I call you Harry?”

His eyebrows rose as he shrugged. “Uh… sure.”

She turned to face him, one hand planted on the table. “You ever study chemistry, Harry?”

“No…?”

Go figure.

She pulled the textbook from under her arm, gently pressing it against his chest. “You’ll hear a lot of people say that Potions is like cooking, but cooking is all chemistry. If you understand the fundamentals, you’ll have an easier time.”

He grabbed hold of the book, reading aloud: “‘Chemistry and the Living Organism’? Also, uh, this is… really heavy.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be around,” she told him, ignoring his complaints. “But if you’re really serious, read chapters one through six, and make notes on anything you _don’t_ understand. I can help fill in the gaps.”

“Seriously?” His tone was cautious. “Just like that?”

“I’ve seen you in Potions, Harry. And believe it or not, I’m not exactly giddy listening to Snape rip you apart like that, much less play fast and loose with the safety of other students.”

“You’d be the first,” was his subdued remark. “So, ah… thanks.”

She shook her head. “For real, Harry,” she cautioned. “Next time, if you don’t know what to do, just leave. I know he doesn’t encourage it, but it’s better if you leave the classroom and spend your time being prepared for the next lesson. Snape gets angry because Potions can be dangerous. And when his hand is forced, he ends up doing stupid things, like daring Gryffindors to test their mettle while somehow pretending as if he has no idea that they’ll fall for it. I don’t want that to happen to Granger again.”

“Right.” He looked troubled.

“Right,” she echoed, stuffing the letter into her robe pocket. “When do you have a free period? I figure I should give you the weekend to study.”

“Before or after Charms,” Harry told her. “And any afternoon I don’t have Quidditch.”

“Since we have Charms together, I suppose after is the safest bet. How does that sound?”

“Okay,” he agreed readily enough.

“Okay,” she mirrored once more, exhaling.

The two of them stared at one another and then took turns gawking at the silence that occupied the room with them -- waiting, impatient. Harry seemed to only be able to endure the pressure of it for a minute more. There was an expectant politeness to him, his gaze fumbling with a cordiality that he was observing for what, she assumed, was make-up for his faux-pas a few weeks past.

It was only when he realized that she wasn’t going anywhere that he finally decided that it would be alright for him to go. His farewell rushed out of him, so brusque and quiet that she hadn’t caught it.

But the sentiment remained with her, awkward and lonely. Regretful. Or maybe just unsure.

She twisted her lips, staring at the gloomily slacked mouth of her bookbag. Hm.

That was all rather silly of her, wasn’t it? She was never going to get that textbook back.

Cleo scratched the side of her neck, frowning. _Sorry dad._

She didn’t feel up to braving the troublesome energy that remained in the greenhouse she and the boy had occupied a day prior. Which was well enough, she supposed; it was a good time to be outside. The night had yielded a blustery rain, but the sky was presently clear, the sun warming her skin and drying dew from the grass.

Inconvenience aside, she found a nice spot on the path that led to that row of slumbering greenhouses. She hadn’t exactly _decided_ if she was going to attend Herbology class that morning: That depended on _factors_. Like the letter clutched in her hand, and a handful of its rejected brothers and sisters lounging in an indecisive fairy ring about her feet. The latest attempt was the most promising. Or the least embarrassing.

 

Hey, Cal.

I’m an arsehole. I’m sorry. And… don’t deny it. It’s okay. I own it. I’ve been an arsehole. But, I’m going to do better, so there’s that.

It’s weird how two years have just sort of… happened? I know I contacted you after Gabriel was born, but the distance after that was inexcusable. (Again, really sorry.) Recovering in the hospital, waiting for Gabriel to get out of the NICU, then just… digging into motherhood was… distracting, to say in the least. But it’s not really an excuse, is it? So, here’s two years of catch up.

  1. I ended up finishing my Muggle schooling. I got my GCSE. Mum and Dad are very proud. Gabriel’s opinion remains withheld (but I like to hope he’s proud of Mummy).
  2. I’m actually okay at the whole mum thing? I really dig it. Admittedly, it helps a lot having my parents’ support. I would be pretty lost without them. But! Can I give myself some credit? I may not have the money thing going for me, but I’m good at the other stuff (I can change a diaper with my eyes closed and I’ve gotten really good at bedtime stories).
  3. I’ve done that thing where after becoming a mother, all I do is talk about being a mum. Sorry.
  4. Speaking of, Gabriel’s first word wasn’t “Mama” or anything of the like (much to my slight disappointment) but “bug.” He is now obsessed with them. It stresses me out. He is distressingly unafraid of spiders. I’m not certain how to feel and I’ll have you know it’s very difficult to smile encouragingly and say “yes, honey, that’s very cute,” when your two year old gleefully shoves an insect into your face.
  5. Oh, and he’s very chatty. He’s just learned you can string words together to have a conversation. His longest is a five word sentence (“Gammie drink big red juice”) but he really favors shouting two words at at time. Bug fly. More juice. Blue car. Mum look.
  6. I’m back at Hogwarts.



Yeah, not kidding. I’m kind of surprised myself. And lost. Too much has changed. Or maybe it just seems that way, I don’t know. I didn’t really understand how hard it would be until I got here and realized that all of you are gone? And it sucks? A lot? And everyone can tell something’s up with me. They’re not wrong, either. I’m nearing twenty and I look it and suddenly everyone under eighteen seems like a baby.

I’m complaining and it’s annoying. Sorry. More positively, I have a plan. Or, I’m trying to have a plan. It’s like me to make things unnecessarily difficult for myself, yeah? So it’s only appropriate that I choose the one professor in school who hasn’t taken on anyone to advise in like, a bloody century. You know how Snape is. And of course, I’m apparently so disorganized that he won’t considering advising me until I can produce a proper proposal for my -- I don’t really know what to call it in wizarding terms. Senior project? The thing I want to focus on so that when I graduate, I have some mode of specialization, and can work on getting an apprenticeship somewhere.

Ugh. I keep complaining. And rambling. Can you tell I don’t have many people to talk to? I miss you. I miss you a lot Cal and I wish we could go to Honeydukes and you could tell me about tuberculosis and shoveling dung (from what??) and “doing it for science” (can I borrow that book? I think Gabe would like it).

I hope we can see each other soon. Maybe you could come during one of the Hogsmeade visits? I’d really love it.

Please contact me soon, Cal. Let’s never do this whole “not talking forever” thing ever again (even though it’s my fault and God did I mention I was really sorry about that?).

So much love,

Cleo

By the time she finished the fifth or so read, she’d only just noticed a little body had plopped itself down beside her, head perched beside her arm.

“You’re not an arsehole,” Thea objected, frowning slightly.

Cleo’s head tilted in her direction as she folded the letter in on itself. “Don’t say that,” she admonished. “I don’t want to get an angry phone call from your Mums accusing me of teaching you bad language.”

Thea giggled. “As if I’d rat on you,” she countered, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Besides, I’ve heard worse.”

“That’s not much better,” Cleo murmured, tilting her head.

“Yeah well,” the girl scrunched up her nose. “S’not like you can order me ‘round, anyway?”

Cleo smirked. “No?”

“You’ve got that mumly thing going for you,” Thea admitted. “But I know you’re not that _lame_.”

Cleo glanced back down to the parchment in her hands. “Try me.”

“Pass.”

A smile crept on to Cleo features, before she caught another glimpse of the girl, suddenly nonplussed. “What time is it?” she asked, her head turning, absent-minded, to glance down at her wrist. A wrist, she belatedly realized, was bare. Grimacing, she smoothed the gesture over by turning in Thea’s direction, questioning: “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

She shrugged. “Snape let out early,” she explained. “Some  _idiot_ didn’t time the addition of their Horklump juice correctly to their Herbicide potion and the entire thing got all _noxious_.”

Cleo straightened, her mouth slinking down into a frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Thea brushed off, her wiry curls bouncing as she nodded. “Snape got the whole class out before it spread. Gave the girl an _earful_ about how he was going to have to fumigate the entire lab and how she nearly killed _everyone_.”

Well, that was an exaggeration. Certainly it’d make people _sick_ for a while, but-- “I imagine she learned her lesson, then.”

Thea hummed, unenthused. “Yep.”

Cleo raised her hand, smoothing a few errant curlicues from the girl’s face. “Well, glad to hear you’re safe.”

“You sound like my _mum_ ,” Thea droned, rolling her eyes. Then, with a frown, she leaned away. “You don’t have to get touchy with me.”

Cleo’s fingers reflexively curled in on themselves and she drew her hand back. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

“S’fine,” Thea replied, brow furrowing.

“Good on you,” Cleo praised. “Setting boundaries is healthy.”

Thea dodged the compliment in a way that felt familiar to Cleo, dismissing her with a soft: “Well, who’s the letter for, anyway?”

“My friend, Cal.”

“The one who contacted you a couple weeks ago?” Thea asked. “So it was nice?”

“It was very nice,” Cleo admitted, sheepish.

“So nothin’ worth being all skittish about.”

Cleo raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not hard to read,” the girl added, grinning. “No offense.”

Cleo waved a hand. “None taken.”

“Well, that’s nice. What’d he ask about?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Thea wheedled, feigning innocence. “I’d say interested.”

“He just wanted to know what I’d been up to,” Cleo told her, crossing her legs. “Asking if we could meet up soon. So I told him one of the Hogsmeade weekends would do fine.”

“You must be excited,” Theo prompted, staring down at her own feet.

“I kind of am, yeah,” Cleo mused before gracing the girl with a smile. “What about you, though? How’re classes going?”

The young Slytherin shrugged. “Y’know, it’s alright. Astronomy is the only enjoyable thing, really. I’m not much for Charms and Transfiguration, Potions is _fine_ , I suppose, and Defense is just… Defense.” She twisted her lips. “Herbology’s okay, too. Professor Sprout’s a nice lady. She’s been getting us to do _Incendio_ to ward off more dangerous plants, but mine gets pretty wild.”

Cleo laughed softly.

“Glad it’s funny to you,” Thea sneered.

“No, nothing like that,” Cleo assured her. “Just... nostalgic. I remember having trouble with that, too.”

“You did?”

“What, you think I just burst forth into Hogwarts, naturally gifted? Hardly.”

Thea looked at her, intrigued. “How’d you… y’know, fix it?”

Cleo let out a soft, pensive hum. “Well, comes down to setting intentions, I think.”

“Huh?”

Cleo rolled her neck in the girl’s direction. “Something my mother taught me.”

“Thought your mum was a Muggle.”

“She is,” Cleo confirmed. “She’s just… different.”

“What’s it mean, though?” Thea asked, canting her head. “Setting intentions?”

“Well,” Cleo hemmed, leaning back against the grass. “It’s just… deciding something, and then using your will to manifest it.”

Thea’s brows drew together, confused. “That just sounds like magic.”

“Exactly.”

“You said this was something your mum taught you,” Thea reiterated, lost. “How does a Muggle do magic?”

 _Not effectively_ , Cleo felt herself thinking before she grimaced. Her mother would have her _head_ for that. “In their own way.”

“So your mum--”

“My mum is religious,” she clarified. “Or, I guess, spiritual.”

“What religion is _that?_ ”

“Wicca,” Cleo supplied, breezy. “So my mother is a witch… in a Muggle way.”

“Never heard of anything like _that_ ,” Thea giggled. “Must’ve been funny when you found out you were… a _witch_ witch.”

Funny wasn’t the word for it. But Cleo didn’t want to think about that.

“Yes, well,” Cleo smoothed over, glancing to her knees. “Even though my mum does a different sort of magic, there were things she taught me that helped _here_ , too.”

Thea looked skeptical, but she leaned toward the older girl, curiosity piqued. “Well… how do you mean?”

Cleo thought a moment before she bent forward and asked: “So, when you cast a spell… how do you do it?”

Thea blinked. “What d’you mean…? I just, uh -- I say the magic word, and it sorta happens.”

“Okay,” Cleo responded, nodding. “How does it feel?”

“I dunno,” Thea murmured, her head tossing skyward. “Sort of like… Warm, I guess? Flowy, too. Like I can feel my blood, or something, and it kind of rushes out.”

“Right,” Cleo remarked, clasping her hands together as she leaned her arms against her knees. “Do you see anything?”

“Like, what? When the spell goes off?”

“No, more like… In your head. Do you imagine anything happening?”

“Oh,” Thea uttered. “Not… really. I don’t really imagine much at all.”

Cleo glanced down, her fingers tensing on one another, before they separated and she reached into her robe pocket. She withdrew her wand with a small swirl, the point dipping toward the ground. The sound of her whispered _Incendio_ was overtaken by a sudden _whoosh_ as a burst of flame burgeoned from her wand and collected at her feet, coalescing into a flared sphere which glided gently down the rocky path before them. It gradually unraveled, blooming outward and spiraling in lazy, measured tendrils. As it moved, it left elegant, swooping scorch marks on the stones, before the flame petered out, dissolving into smoke.

“Whoa,” Thea gasped, her eyes glued to the path. “How’d you do that?”

“I _thought_ of doing it,” Cleo answered.

Thea frowned, no more enlightened by that statement.

Another tact, then. “For me, it made things easier when I framed doing magic as something that wasn’t simply a _result_ of instruction, but rather something I _intended_. I’d set my intention to something specific: _Make fire_. And I’d use my magic to make my intention manifest. The magic word wasn’t the _instruction_ \-- it was the _conduit_. And… it made it easier to control.”

Thea’s forehead wrinkled as she squinted, her lips twitching downward, doubtful. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Bet you can,” Cleo challenged, smirking.

“What do you bet?” Thea shot back, eyebrow raising.

“Hm. How about… if you can’t make a small, controlled _Incendio_ … I’ll buy you a month’s worth of candy from Honeyduke’s--”

“Can’t bribe me with sweets, I’m _not_ a kid,” Thea drawled, unimpressed.

“-- _and_ , I’ll write your next four essays. Any class.”

“Well, that’s a bit more like it,” Thea considered, a bit more agreeable. “Alright. You’re on.”

The girl sat up, producing her own wand from her book bag. She placed herself in a stance before hesitating, tossing her gaze haphazardly in Cleo’s direction. “So… how do I… do it?”

“Alright, first,” Cleo instructed, leaning her chin into her hand, eyes glued to the girl’s posture. “I want you to visualize something. Might be better if you close your eyes.”

Thea acquiesced quickly, her eyes clamping shut as she kept her wand hand poised in the air.

“Can’t see anything, right?”

“No,” Thea giggled. “Just dark.”

“Well, I want you to imagine that darkness _all_ around you, as if you’re trapped somewhere you’d rather not be. And in the pitch, you can see a small ball forming, gradual, no bigger than the size of your fist. A ball made of flame, glowing, warm, tearing through the dark. Can you see it?”

“Yeah,” Thea replied, leisurely. “Coming from my wand. Lighting up my hand.”

“Good. Now…”

Cleo leaned closer, hesitating as she went to grasp Thea’s hand. “Is it okay if I hold your wand arm?”

Thea’s curls bounced as she nodded, her eyes still shut tight.

Cleo grasped her wrist, steadying it in the air. “Still see the flame?”

“I do,” she remarked, her face set in concentration. “Just hovering there.”

“Okay, now… I want you to _want_ it. I want you to dig deep inside yourself; I want you to feel your magic as you described -- warm, like a blood flow -- and I want you to wish you could make this happen, _right now_. When you feel it, just say the word, like it’s yours.”

For a while, the girl didn’t move, the silence seeming to encompass them both. In that moment, it was the two of them, drawn into the silence of their focus; the world was centered here. The girl’s breathing was slow and deep, and when Cleo felt the girl’s arms tense up, she glanced to the tip of Thea’s wand.

Cleo’s hand moved with the flick of Thea’s wrist as the girl uttered an acute but stern: “ _Incendio_.”

A spark momentarily flickered into the air, quickly evaporating when she noticed Thea's brow wrinkled in what seemed like embarrassment, her entire form jolting back and bumping into Cleo’s. “Wait -- whoops, I didn’t do the wand movement right--”

“That’s okay,” Cleo promised her. “It doesn’t matter. Just do what feels natural.”

“But Professor Sprout said that you have to make sure your swipe is sharp, otherwise--”  
  
“Otherwise what?” Cleo laughed. “It’ll turn into water?”

“Well, no. It just won’t--”

“Focus,” Cleo chastised her, tapping the side of her forearm. “And trust me a little, please.”

“Fine,” Thea agreed, albeit a bit petulantly, though her eyes remained wired shut. “But I’m doing the wand movement correctly this time.”

“Whatever you like,” Cleo grumbled, correcting the girl’s posture. “Get back to where you were before, with the fire. Don’t rush yourself.”

It took another few protracted moments before she felt a similar tensing in the girl’s limbs. She followed the movement of her arm as the girl sliced the air, her voice ringing out with confidence: “ _Incendio!_ ”

“Open your eyes,” Cleo whispered, lips splitting into a smile.

Her eyelids fluttered open and Cleo’s hand slid to Thea's elbow to brace her as the girl's entire body dipped with the sudden thrum of shock. There, at the tip of her wand: A small cluster of fire hovered, steady and obedient, small fingers of flame lapping outward as it pulsed with energy.

It fizzled and faded slightly as Thea took in a sharp breath, losing concentration. “No way.”

Cleo drew her hand away, allowing the girl to hold her own weight. “Way.”

“I did it,” Thea breathed, astonished.

“You did it.”

“I did it?” Thea turned her head, the small twitch of her mouth betraying the beginnings of a grin.

“All by yourself,” Cleo emphasized, holding her hands up.

“This is so…” Thea’s voice faded as she went to stare at the ball of flame again, mesmerized. “But how do I…?”

“Just think of anything,” Cleo told her, feeling a strange warmth shimmer through her own limbs, “and try to make it happen.”

The girl’s eyes darted to the floor and, within a second, her wand tip pointed down, the ball plummeting with it. It landed with a spectacular _thump_ before fizzling out, the smoke of it curling up around Thea’s legs.

“Whoops.”

Cleo chuckled softly. “What’d you try to do?”

“Make it bounce,” the girl explained, disheartened.

“It takes a bit of practice,” Cleo promised. “You did better than me on my first run, anyway. I was barely able to keep a _Lumos_ lit for a minute. You’ll get there, the more you try.”

“Right,” Thea responded, her voice distant, stare still trained on the tip of her wand. “That was… I really didn’t think I could do that.”

Cleo leaned against her hand, smirking. “Sorry about the homework. And the sweets.”

Thea’s response was a laugh that cut itself short, focus clearly lingering on the memory of what she'd accomplished. Cleo observed as the girl’s shoulders drooped in hesitation, before Thea turned to look at her. “Cleo?”

“Yeah?”

“Could we…” Thea paused and a sense of wonder seeped into the girl’s eyes, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her wand. She smiled this time, more earnest. “Could you show me how to do it again?”

In time, they had managed that bounce. Probably would have mastered another trick, if Cleo wasn’t expected elsewhere.

Somewhere important.

Dumbledore’s office was quiet and cozy, full of plush chairs and odd little contraptions. Still, every time she arrived, Cleo was struck by a pervasive discomfort, a sense that even though she was expected, she wasn’t exactly _welcome_.

Who was she kidding, though? _Hyperbole_ , she reminded herself.

They went through the same routine. His courteous greeting. Her sheepish reply. His prompting. Her occupying the space she had only a few times before: A chair and desk he conjured for just this purpose, cordoned off into the corner of his office space, where a solitary mirror sat, patient.

He would pass his hand over the glassy surface in the same practiced way and then stroll to where his desk stood, to whatever work he distracted himself with to give Cleo the illusion of privacy she wished she could _actually_ have.

She waited as the glass turned opaque, as if frost glided across the surface, before each blurry streak faded and cleared, piecemeal. And in the clear glass, she beheld two brilliant blue eyes, hovering just above a damp nose and lopsided grin.

He looked offset by the angle of the glass as he, no doubt, held it as close to his face as possible.

But soon, that voice -- that beautiful, lilting, saccharine soprano -- filled the space around her, making her shoulders roll up on an instinct so primordial and bone deep she felt herself ache. “Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama--”

He was singing it, grinning into the glass as if it were a toy.

A wave of emotion crashed over her, forcing her to lurch forward, hands reaching for something that wasn’t there. “Hey, Bedbug,” the words oozed from her, breathless, so infused with emotion that it sounded like a whimper. “Hi. Can you hear me? Can you hear me sweetheart?”

“Hi, Mama.”

Her fingers gripped air. “Hi, Gabriel.”

The image shifted: All at once, he was pulled away from the mirror as it lifted and adjusted itself, settling moments later on a bigger picture. Her mother and father huddled into the frame, Gabriel now seated on his lap as her mum waved his hand for him.

It took everything in her not to burst into tears.

“Happy birthday!” they shouted together, grinning.

“What?” Cleo asked, swallowing back another hard crash of emotion. “That’s not for another few days, yet--”

“We know,” her father answered. “But we didn’t know if we’d be talking to you then, so might as well now, eh? We’re getting help with the owl to send you a present on the proper day.”

“You don’t have to, really--”

“Oh don’t you even start, Clytemnestra!” her mother bleated, frowning. “You’re not too old for birthdays yet, you know. Besides, Bedbug made something nice for you. Didn’t he?”

She glanced down at the boy as he was busy playing with his own fingers. His acknowledgement was a soft hum, followed by a giggle as he looked up again, this time leaning forward to grab the mirror again.

“Something nice he made at nursery school,” she added, intercepting his hand and giving his knuckles a few quick kisses. Gabriel squealed with delight.

“How is that going?” Cleo asked, leaning toward the mirror in earnest.

“Good, really good,” her father fielded. “The nursery aides still think he’s a charmer, though we had a story last week of him bringing worms into the classroom after lunch--”

Gabriel ducked into his own hands as if he were hiding, but his grin showed just under his fingers.

“-- but otherwise he’s a very good boy. Learning a lot, aren’t you? Making good friends. Before you know it, he’ll be starting Primary school and then before you know _that_ , it’s uni--”

On impulse, Cleo’s eyes shut as she shook her head. She could hear her mother crooning, “Oh no, not yet. You’re just gonna stay a little monster forever, aren’t you? Forever and ever and ever and--”

Gabriel squealed loudly as her mother bent down, digging and tickling her fingers into his sides.

What she wouldn’t give to be doing the same. Her eyes opened against their better judgment and she watched with a bittersweet joy as Gabriel leaned back against his grandfather’s chest, cheeks red and with a smile so big it folded his face.

“But he’s doing okay?” she asked, her hand gripping the edge of the mirror.

“He gets fussy sometimes, especially at night. But otherwise he’s doing alright. He misses you awfully.”

“I miss you too, Bedbug.”

“Hi, Mama,” the two year old repeated with a bashful wave. “Where?”

“I’m at school, honey. Remember? Do you remember the name I told you?”

“Hogwash,” the boy pronounced, seeming proud of himself. “Hoggywash.”

“Hog _warts_ ,” Cleo’s mother corrected him. But he’d already started on a tirade of repeating the word, again and again, clearly pleased with how fun it felt to say.

She heard a soft chuckle behind her and her head snapped into the direction of its source; Dumbledore was leaning against one of the columns nearby, having completely given up on the decorum he seemed determined to keep previously. She looked back to the mirror.

“What else has been going on?” Cleo pressed, forcing her hands into her lap.

“Oh,” her father uttered, as if he’d just remembered. “Well, Gabriel’s pediatrician has been calling.”

Her brow furrowed, tense. “Wait, why--”

“Oh, oh no!” he cut in, the deep bellow of his laugh rumbling from within the confines of the frame. “Nothing serious. It’s just about his immunization. He’s overdue.”

“Yes, and we told them we wanted to defer to Gabie’s mum before moving forward,” her mother put in, combing her fingers through Gabriel's hair.

“Right,” Cleo murmured, frowning. “I’m not sure with… after what happened last time--”

“Gammie says,” Gabriel piped up, staring at Cleo intently. “Gammie says.”

“What does Gammie say, sweetpea?” Cleo asked with a tender smile.

“Gammie say, Gammie… Gamme got--” he repeated, struggling with the syntax. It wasn’t surprising -- he liked to be in on conversations, even if the structures of his sentences often melded into one another, or disintegrated into babbling nonsense. It was always fun, though, to talk about nothing for hours.

She felt elated. It was embarrassing with an audience. “Did Gammie get something?”

“Shots,” he said at once.

“Oh!” her mother laughed, waving a hand in front of her face. “I tried explaining to him what shots are and, well--”

“Gammie says shots,” he repeated, his eyes glancing down into his hands again, as he picked at something she couldn’t see. Her father reached down to pull them away from each other, and in a moment the little boy was enthralled with the coarse outline of his grandfather’s hand, outstretching his palm and fingers against the older man’s, where he still fit.

“Look,” he said, glancing to his mum in earnest.

“I see it,” Cleo replied in a small voice, feeling her fingers twitch.

“Can I get shots?” the boy asked.

“Maybe, I think Mama has to talk to some people first,” she explained. “Last time you and I were at the doctors, something went bad. So Mama is going to make sure that can’t happen again.”

“Bad?” the little one questioned, seeming alarmed. “Like sick?”

“Yeah, Bedbug. Like sick.”

“Oh,” Gabriel murmured, though she wasn’t sure he understood. It was hard to know.

“I’ll call Dr. Ulrich,” her mother cut in, “and let him know we’re going to look at other options--”

“Don’t put it like that,” Cleo interjected, a little frantic. “That makes it sound like I’m refusing, or something…”

“What shall I say, then?” her mother asked, sounding put out.

“That I need to make some inquiries with his other doctors involving health concerns before I make the appointment.”

“Alright then,” her mother agreed readily enough, but she could sense the tension wound in the woman’s frame. “Still, I don’t see the harm in alternative options.”

Cleo stared at her mother, incredulous. “A lot? What if he _needs_ his vaccines? It’s tantamount to child abuse if I just outright _refuse_ \--”

“It’s _not_ child abuse, don’t be dramatic,” her mother objected, glowering.

As always, her father attempted to diffuse the situation, breezing in with a jovial: “Enough about us. What about you, Cleo? How’s school going?”

Cleo was just about done with _that_ topic as well. “I’d rather not talk about that, if it’s--”

Her mother snorted, derisive. Immediately, and in a manner that only could be described as practiced, her father turned toward her. “Go take a walk, Holly.”

At once, she rose from her place on the floor and strolled out of frame. Gabriel’s eyes were locked on her, even long after she’d exited the space.

Cleo rubbed the side of her face, exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” her father dismissed her.

“I didn’t mean to set her off.”

“She’s sensitive today,” he elucidated. “I think she believes you’re being critical of _her_ parenting.”

“How in the world--”

“Well, you didn’t get vaccinated.”

Cleo swiped her hand over her face. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“You’re not,” he told her, his voice turning stern for the first time. “You know that’s not how this works.”

He was right. It didn’t make things less frustrating. But in a way, she suddenly felt like she _should_ be critical. “Why didn’t I get vaccinated?”

“Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah,” she shot back, frowning.

“It’s not a decision I would’ve made,” he admitted. “But your mother was very convinced on the matter. Had a _feeling_ about it. You know I can’t budge her when she’s got _instinct_ about something. And, well. She wasn’t exactly wrong with you, was she?”

Maybe not, but…

“He might not be the same as me,” Cleo argued, her gaze darting to her son.

“How likely do you think that is?”

It wasn’t likely at all, but it didn’t stop her from hoping. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t know either,” her father said with a laugh. “This is all rather new for me. But, hey. Why don’t I ask some other witches when your mother and I go to group this weekend?”

It was smart. And his unrelenting means of being so… bloody reasonable made it hard to be annoyed. Her shoulders dropped and she glanced toward the ceiling, catching a glimpse of the brass contraption above -- some garish decor Dumbledore must have found charming, she assumed -- swirling and turning in on itself of its own volition. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“I’m best at those!” he exclaimed. “Aren’t I, Bedbug?”

When she glanced down, her son and her father were staring up at one another, grinning from ear to ear.

“You and mum are still going to group?” It felt like a good idea to change the subject.

“Every week,” he said, looking up at her again. “Your mother enjoys it a lot. Has it in her head now that she’s possibly a--” He stopped mid-sentence, his lips puckering as if trying to grasp at a memory that was fading from him. “Well, I don’t remember what they called it. A non-magical person born to magical parents? And I can’t really argue with her, can I? Everything’s possible at this point.”

“Mm,” Cleo hummed, noncommittal, before sighing. “Well, I’m glad it’s going well.”

“Last weekend there was some awful news about a family in the Cardiff chapter. Poor girl that went missing. We were asked to keep our eyes out, but, y’know.”

Considering how much her father watched those bloody cop shows, she knew exactly what he was insinuating. But she didn't want to think about that. Too grim. “That’s sad.”

“Sure is,” he agreed. “But, enough about that. You really don’t want to talk about school?”

“I don’t, Dad,” she insisted.

“That bad, huh?”

Cleo leaned her head against her shoulder. “Coming back has been difficult, is all. I’ll deal with it.”

“Well, I think I may have some good news for you. If you wait a sec--”

He rose from his seat, gingerly placing Gabriel on the floor. “Stay and talk with your Mama, okay? Papa will be right back.”

The scene appeared a bit clearer now, with less bodies to take up the space. Gabriel was still seated in the middle of the floor, of course, but other items began manifesting around him, like the shag carpet that cradled his legs, a few canvas stands, a potted plant, some sconces for incense--

Cleo looked at her son. “Are you in Gammie’s room?”

“Uh huh,” the boy replied, glancing behind him.

She squinted, suspicious. “Is the mirror on Gammie’s altar?”

“Uh huh.”

Figures.

“She got it all decorated for Samhain?”

Gabriel’s entire body lurched into a nod.

“Any pumpkins?”

“Yeah,” he said, a smile creeping onto his features again. Cleo’s heart swelled.

“Did you pick them out with Gammie?”

“Uh huh.”

She felt the urge for her expression to sour. She wished she could’ve gone. But it was ridiculous, wasn’t it, to get jealous? Over something so silly?

“No lit candles right now though, right?”  
  
“Nope.”

It felt weird, talking with him, almost as if he were there in the room with her, but with enough distance that she felt the sting of being unable to hold him. It hurt. It was stupid, how much it bloody hurt. “You know why, right?”

“Fire’s bad,” he recited, leaning forward again, almost as if he wanted to touch the mirror once more.

“That’s right,” she affirmed. “I don’t want you playing around Gammie’s altar, not without her watching.”

Suddenly, a voice blossomed from the right of the frame. “Who’s playing with my altar?”

Gabriel broke into a fit of giggles. Seconds later, Cleo could see her mother’s legs waltzing into the picture once more, as she picked up the boy by his armpits and settled herself on the ground, placing him in her lap.

Cleo tilted her head. “You put the mirror on your altar?”

“Oh, Clytemnestra, _don’t_ ,” she begged. “Trust me. It harmonizes the space. I wish I could show you. It has such a positive energy to it. When you come home, you’ll see.”

“Okay,” Cleo conceded, shoulders rolling back.

“I won’t scry with it or anything,” Holly promised, playing with Gabriel’s hands. “I’ve another mirror for that.”

“I believe you.”

She grinned at Cleo. “I know you don’t mean to be so fussy. Samhain was always a very dark time for you. It makes sense, considering. Scorpios are incredibly intuitive like that. You feel the coming of Midwinter long before any of us.”

Her mood had nothing to do with that, but there wasn’t any use arguing such a thing with her mother.

Holly grasped something from the top of the frame, pulling it into sight. “Got my red candle all ready, just for you. I’ll set my intentions for peace and clarity.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Of course, darling,” she murmured, leaning upward to set the candle back into its proper place. “Where’d your father go?”

“I don’t know,” Cleo admitted. “He went to get something.”

Holly leaned back, glancing toward the door Cleo knew was off frame. Probably slightly ajar, too, allowing their family portraits to peek in, curious. “Greg!” she called. “Greg, what are you doing?”

There was a muffled shout that Cleo couldn’t make out, but when her mother leaned back toward her, she said: “He says he’ll be back in a second.”

Cleo nodded. “Just -- I kind of don’t know how long I have to talk to you guys. I have Potions in, like, twenty minutes--”

Holly laughed. “So casual. ‘ _I have Potions_ ’ -- Goddess above me, Clytemnestra, I’ll never get used to that--”

“Got it!”

Greg reentered the picture, hands behind his back as he resumed his spot on the ground.

“I was just telling Mum about how I don’t really have a lot of time to talk to you guys,” Cleo reiterated. “So maybe just--”

“I’ll be quick,” Greg promised. “I was hoping this could be a bit more of a reveal but--” In a second, he pulled his hands from behind him, waving an envelope in front of the mirror.

“What’s--?”

“Oh, come now. Have a guess. Who’s going to be sending you post at this time of the year?”

Cleo’s expression bunched up. “Wait, it’s not--”

“Oh yes it is,” Greg cut in, grinning. “Aberdeen.”

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to sick up.

“Oh God,” she sighed, glancing down.

“Oh God?” Greg questioned, a chuckle riding the back of his voice. “What’s that about? Oh God?”

“Well I don’t know what it says, do I?” Cleo shot back, sounding dreadful.

“You’re assuming it’s bad!” Greg accused, somehow managing to keep the levity in his tone. “Come now, Cleo. Honey. Breathe a second, won’t you? I said it was good news, didn’t I?”

That about winded her just as bad as the dismay, but somewhere in the thick of her anxiety, she found the ability to speak. “I got in?”

“Of course you got in!” her father announced as if this were a forgone conclusion. Her mother cheered, clapping Gabriel’s hands together, as the boy squealed in the excitement, happy to be included.

“I… got in,” Cleo repeated, staring, bewildered, into her family’s elated faces. “For real?”

“For real,” Greg promised. “Congratulations, sweetie.”

She should’ve screamed, leapt in excitement. Been _happy_. Anything. But for one reason or another, all she could feel was… She didn’t know. But it lied somewhere in between trepidation and pressure; it built, steadily, in the pit of her stomach, climbing higher until she felt almost as if she’d pass out.

“Aren’t you excited?” Holly prompted her.

“Of course I am,” Cleo lied, forcing a smile. “It’s just-- hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it, kiddo. You did it. I’m really proud of you,” Greg added, his smile a small crease in his face.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Step one completed, yeah?” he said and her heart jumped into her throat. He waved the envelope again. “I’ll keep this safe for you.”

Step one… _God._ She was such a fucking failure.

Cleo didn’t realize how long she’d been staring in silence until she heard Holly calling for her: “Hello? Earth to Clytemnestra? You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about something.” Cleo shook her head.

Holly looked at Greg, sectarian. “She’s got her head up all in _Potions_ class.”

“As she very well should,” Greg approved. “Always loved that about you, babygirl. Diligent. Should we let you go?”

“You might have to,” Cleo replied, reluctant. Her eyes dropped to her son. “Bedbug?”

However, Gabriel was caught up in playing with his grandmother’s autumn-themed shawls, draping them over the front of his face.

She smiled. “Gabriel?”

Holly pulled the sheer bit of cloth from him, bringing his attention back to the mirror.

“Mama has to go,” Cleo broke the news to him, tender.

His eyes narrowed, confused.

“I have class very soon. But Mama will call you back when she’s able, alright?”

These words, above all else, seemed to not only cause confusion, but distress. “Mama?” he called for her, his entire body bent toward the mirror. She felt that primeval instinct shoot up her spine; her hands held each other tightly in her lap.

“Sweetie?”

“Mama go?”

“Yes, honey. Only for a little while though.”

His expression crumbled. “Coming home?”

“Not yet baby.” Letting him down. Again. Her heart pummeled her ribcage. “I’m sorry. Soon. I promise.”

She could see it, the pools forming just under his eyes. His cheeks were puffy and his lip jutted out, just barely holding back a grief he couldn’t quite understand. “Why?”

Was there a reason? Staring at him like this, it didn’t feel as if there were any good ones. “Because I just have to be here right now, Bedbug.”

Such a lame excuse. _Because I said so_. So much more for, "I'll never be the mum who says that. Or does this." How many more promises would she break in the duration of being a mother? How many times would she be something she vowed she wouldn’t?

Gabriel looked between his grandparents, searching for clarity. His breathing grew staccato and, before anyone knew it, the tears started coming, accompanied by the sound of Holly’s cooing as she picked him up and began to pace the room with him.

“Don’t worry about that,” Greg assured her, picking up on her distress. “He’ll be right as rain in a little while. They don’t call it the Terrible Twos for nothing.”

“But--”

“But nothing,” Greg shot through that line of thought, a little more stern than she was used to. “You have to be there. Don’t worry about the homefront. Your mother and I have this.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” she whispered.

“Stop that,” he ordered. “Just keep your head at school. Just two short years, and it’s smooth sailing.”

 _Smooth sailing._ How did he have such perfect faith? He had _no_ idea.

The guilt of that had her trying to confess. “Dad, about that actually, I need to talk about--”

“Later,” he interrupted her, glancing behind him, the sound of Gabriel’s tantrum mounting. “Promise. Go to class, babygirl. We love you and believe in you.”

“I--” She stopped, observing the assuredness of his expression. The stalwart confidence. She suddenly felt afraid.

A pair of legs arrived beside her and she glanced down into her lap. “I love you too.”

The sound of Gabriel’s screams faded gradually, seeming to stretch outward into her periphery, until overtaken by the natural ambiance of the Headmaster’s office. The man in question righted himself, after having swiped his hand over the mirror. When she looked up, her reflection faced her squarely. The sight of it made her feel such shame and revulsion that she turned away, sucking in a breath.

“Miss Croft?”

A heaviness bore down on her chest, constricting it. It made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. When she could, she couldn’t manage anything more than a pathetic mewl: “I need a second.”

“As you wish.” The man receded, moving to stand by the fire.

The ‘second’ wasn’t much help. She could likely sit there for an eternity, struggling against the inevitable. Either way, only seconds after the Headmaster had settled himself in front of his mantel, a sob strained her throat, her hand only barely able to catch it as she pressed it hard against her mouth.

She could still hear it, even long after it had gone… The sound of Gabriel’s cries were tattooed within her memory -- from the very first moment she held him, to the present where she cradled her arms against her chest, so cold and empty.

A pink handkerchief appeared in front of her, floating of its own accord, within arm’s reach. The Headmaster hadn’t moved from his spot, but the offering was clearly from him.

It took her a moment to snatch it from the air, but the gesture was enough to instill her with humility. “Sorry,” she whimpered, dabbing the kerchief under her eyes.

“Nothing at all to be sorry for, my dear,” the old man assured her, voice gentle. “I am… I feel certain you must miss them very much.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle,” she joked in some pathetic attempt to stave off the humiliation.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Dumbledore commented, turning in her direction. “Your ability to cherish family is, in many ways, admirable.”

He said that as if it was something unexpected of her. Or, whatever. Maybe she was just misunderstanding… “I appreciate it,” she said, sniffing hard as she wiped more tears from her eyes.

Dumbledore was momentarily quiet. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Croft?”

“No,” she answered quickly, forcing herself to stand. “I’m sorry. I should…” Her sentence died as she began to collect her things.

He seemed surprised, his eyebrows climbing upward as he commented, “There is no need to rush yourself--”

“If I don’t get out of your hair right now, I’ll likely never make it to Potions,” she rationalized, halfway across the space, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “And I don’t know how that will help anyone.”

She didn’t search for his expression, nor did he say a word as she left, which was just as well. His kindly demeanor felt no more authentic than the distant image of her family had been.

 _Hyperbole_ or not.

In the end, it wasn’t her grief that stopped her from attending Potions... Just the entirety of Slytherin House.

Or, enough congregated to _look_ about that size. She wasn’t the only person obstructed in the proceedings, either. A sizable amount of students, those who were attempting to pass through the Entrance Hall from both the stairs and from the Grounds, were halted by a cavalcade of bodies stood together in defiance, backs turned inward, arms locked together in a chain. Even more bodies stood in between the large circle, giving it strength. Making it tangible. Impossible to pass.

And one body in particular, outside the circle, was making rounds.

“... and do you think, for _one moment_ , that man would make such exemptions for us? Would he descend from his ivory tower for _our_ sake?”

A loud shout came from the crowd, in sync: “No!”

From beside her, a disgruntled Ravenclaw bellowed: “Get off it, Urquhart! Let us through!”

A familiar voice approached her from behind. “What’s going on?” She turned minutely, catching a glimpse of red and gold, round glasses, and messy hair.

She couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t like she often found herself in the thick of Slytherin’s sour disposition, only aware of the rift it created in its wake. She was barely acquainted with the crowd’s leader, Rhys Urquhart, who was at the heart of _one_ faction of her House’s discontent... But the unsettling familiarity of the scene had her speaking, automatic:

“A protest.”

Harry leaned forward, eyes darting around the gathered crowd. “Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

A Hufflepuff girl at the bottom of the stairs, in clear distress, was on the tips of her toes, staring over the group of bodies to the doors that laid beyond. “Come on! I have a test in Herbology!”

“Not until we get what we came for!” Rhys’s commanding voice wafting over the crowd, deep and resonating and full of conviction. “What we _deserve!_ ”

“Equal treatment!” a couple of girls in the circle screamed.

“An end to discrimination!” a few boys added.

In the middle, the loudest voice, a young woman belted: “Justice for Montague!”

This riled the entire block of students up, who began to chant this phrase in earnest: “Justice for Montague!”

Over the din, Harry saw fit to ask, “Are these all Slytherins?”

“Who else would they be?” Some Gryffindor she didn’t recognize answered him, just over her shoulder. Cleo drew herself inward, nervous.

Rhys had made his way toward the stairs, the chanting carrying him in confidence. “Dumbledore _must_ answer for the mistreatment of Graham Montague!” he pointed his accusation upward, arm raised and balled in a fist. “He _must_ answer. He will not _rest_ until we get recourse! We will break down this castle, brick and mortar, until he is _forced_ down and he gives us--!”

The crowd filled in the word for him, climbing high over his shoulders, standing loud and proud before the people that filled the stairs: “Justice!”

“Who gives a shrivelfig about bloody Montague?” a voice yelled from the entrance to the grounds, derisive. “Get out of the bleeding way!”

“Who cares about Montague?” Rhys challenged, turning his back to the stairs to face the person who spoke. “You can _see_ who cares about Montague! Who cares about Montague… Why don’t you tell that to his parents? His friends? His _fiancée_ ? You ask _them_ who cares for Montague!”

Harry sounded off an exasperated sigh, raising his voice for the first time. “What’s wrong with him? Y’know, aside from his horrid personality,” he demanded, arms crossed.

Urquhart turned back toward the stairs, seemingly amused not so much by what was _said_ but rather _who_ said it. Effortlessly, his voice climbed upward, even though he spoke in a lower register than his previous proclamations. “You ask your friend _Weasley_ what happened to Montague, Potter,” he mocked, head canted, “that is, if you can force yourself to care for those you deem _undesirable_.”

The Gryffindor’s eyebrows drew downward, but he did not muster his faculties quickly enough to respond before Rhys turned back toward the crowd.

“ _Undesirable_ ,” he repeated, his voice blooming from the epicenter of the crowd as they parted, fluid, to allow him to stand in their midst, towering above the deluge of bodies, commanding everyone’s attention. “Because that’s what we are, aren’t we? To Potter and his lot? To _Dumbledore_ and his?”

A steady beat of voices rang out in agreement, sharp eyes keened in a dangerous glare to the boy just over her shoulder. Harry’s arms dropped to his sides, fists clenching.

“Slytherins -- _scheming_ , _conniving, ruthless_ \-- minds ready and willing to be plucked by the Dark Lord?” Rhys recited, his head turning to look at every person that gathered around them. “Nevermind those among us who they, themselves, are born of Muggle heritage. Nevermind those of us who would eagerly accept and stand by them, who would protect and defend them! We are nothing but Death Eaters in wait, are we not?!

“ _That’s_ what calls for the interrogations,” he accused, incensed. “The conditional re-acceptance into this institution! The stricter curfews! Fewer allowances for Quidditch, for trips to Hogsmeade! The unrelenting, unmitigated _bias_ \-- the utter _lack_ of clemency that would otherwise be allowed to students of _acceptable_ Houses--”

She would never know or understand _how_ , during all this, Rhys’s eyes managed to hone in on her exact position. Perhaps on a grand sweep to stick his point to Harry, he had miscalculated and found her in their midst. All she knew was that in the next moment, the crowd parted again and Rhys was making his way to her, pushing past the dissenting bodies as if they were _nothing_ and grasping her wrist with such force it made her gasp aloud.

Seconds later she was careening down the stairs, dragged right behind him, until she was walked to the middle of the Slytherin crowd, her arm held aloft and high in the air as he yelled: “Would _Harry Potter_ have been treated the same as _Cleo Croft?_ ” he asked, and she heard the voices around her rumbling, uneven, but all in agreement: “No!”

“Would _Harry Potter_ have lost Gryffindor all their points for a single act of defiance?”

Louder this time, more in sync: “No!”

“Or would he have been _rewarded_ , not for his _actions_ , but for the sake of Dumbledore’s _favoritism?_ ”

 _That_ felt familiar. She disliked how easily she was tokenized, but she _could_ remember the rage she, too, felt in her third year when Slytherin’s win of the House Cup was stolen away from them and given to Gryffindor, and so _arbitrarily_. Last minute points for “bravery”, the prevailing trait of the whole of their House. As if that trait was inherently worth more than all the others.

The incident had lost its sting as the years went on, as other things took precedent, but…

She almost felt swept up in it, somehow. She glanced up toward Harry.

“Would _Cleo Croft_ have been regarded as a _hero_ for conquering the Chamber of Secrets, or would she have been _framed_ as its master? Would _Cleo Croft_ have been _allowed_ to reign as Hogwarts’s second Tri-Wizard champion, or would Dumbledore have made an example of her-- sowing fear in the heart of any Slytherin who dared oppose him? Would _Cleo Croft_ have been allowed to create a secret group in _direct opposition_ to Ministry officials or would she have been left to the _wolves_ for being a Slytherin who _dared_ to congregate?!”

Her eyes caught on Harry in the crowd: his jaw set, brow furrowed, hands wound tight around the strap of his bag. What was he thinking? Was he angry to hear all this, or merely upset to be attacked? She didn’t know him well enough to tell, but the fact that he didn’t have a retort was telling.

“Would _Cleo Croft_ be rewarded for such flagrant disregard for the rules, or would she be _punished_ , for nothing more than the circumstances of her _sorting,_ as much as you believe those of _us_ would punish her for the circumstances of her _birth?_ ”

A girl beside her grasped her free hand, squeezing tight. When Cleo looked down, she recognized her within an instant: Jodie, smiling encouragingly, her stature just barely allowing her to not be encapsulated in the waves of older students that surrounded her. Her voice rose up above her first: “ _Justice_ for Cleo Croft!” Jodie’s head turned to the crowd that stood in defiance of them and she shouted again: “Justice for Slytherin!”

It wasn’t long before other voices joined in, chanting the same refrain: “ _Justice for Cleo Croft! Justice for Slytherin!_ ”

It shouldn’t have, it really shouldn’t have, but… Somewhere, deep down in her heart, she felt a lightness. Never, in all her years at Hogwarts, had her House been so _supportive_. Up until then, living in her House had been like navigating a battlefield; a game of understanding what elements were dangerous -- life threatening, even. But to have a faction of Slytherin crowded around her, unified in purpose, and with the unflinching, unrepentant acceptance of who she was…?

It was freeing. It lifted a burden she was so used to carrying, that the lightness of its absence made her feel lopsided and gangly. It was a different picture than the House that she knew; the House that Professor Snape had spent time warning Muggleborns to hide themselves within.

Looking at Harry, and the faces of the disgruntled masses who were being disturbed as a result, she knew she shouldn’t have felt so _bolstered_ by this, but...

A sudden, reverberating _crack_ sounded nearby, followed by another, and another. Everyone’s heads swiveled toward the noise to find Draco Malfoy, sauntering forward with his hands in front of him. Lazily, he clapped his hands together, the sound amplified by magic and echoing off the stone walls of the Entrance Hall.

The first word out of his mouth was dripping with scorn. “Riveting. _Truly_.”

The first response was from an older looking student at the front of the circle, sniping him with a withering: “Bugger off, Malfoy.”

“You know, I _would_ , except, more’s the pity--” He gestured theatrically to their grouping. “-- it looks like you’re in my way.”

“Join the club, then,” the student shot back, unsympathetic.

His chuckle was scornful to its core. “As if I could ever stoop low enough to associate with your pitiful little band of zealots.”

“As if we’d actually want anything to do with _you_ ,” he shot back. “You know what I meant, Malfoy.”

“It’s sad, really,” the blonde continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “The amount of effort you’ve put in for --” He paused, imperious gaze darting toward the middle of the crowd. “-- Well, can’t be certain. What, _exactly_ , have you accomplished, Urquhart?”

If Rhys seemed bothered by this jab, he didn’t look it. The boy had the practiced composure of a politician and, with a soft smile, he humored Malfoy with a patient: “A just cause proves itself, Malfoy.”

He smirked. “Ah, just as I thought. All platitudes and no _substance_.”

Rhys glanced to Cleo as if prompting whether she had any input or interest in this conversation, a soft laugh escaping him. “I don’t find it necessary to explain myself to a boy whose father currently resides in Azkaban.”

A few laughs rang from the students surrounding her, punctuated by the low thrum of voices that rang from the crowd just behind Malfoy, discordant.

Malfoy’s casual demeanor hardened, though his tone remained airy and trenchant. “Oh, _good one_. Very original. If you can handle a Quaffle even _half_ as well as you insult, Slytherin might stand a chance this year.”

“I’d say that our chances have _vastly_ improved after your removal, actually,” Rhys shot back, casual, turning to face Malfoy fully.

“Rather sharp talk coming from someone of such little import,” Malfoy drawled, hands pushing into his pockets.

“Perhaps not in your circles, Malfoy,” Rhys remarked. “And for that, I count myself grateful.”

The smile Malfoy decided to carry right then was conceited. “My circles,” he echoed, eyebrow raising. “I see, like my _father_ , yes? Well, since you seem to be so fond of the subject of _fathers_ , let’s talk about yours.”

Rhys excused himself from the circle, traversing the gap to Malfoy in what felt like only a few steps. “Listen, I understand how _hard_ it is to feel _this_ lonely,” he mocked, offering Malfoy a magnanimous pat on the shoulder that the boy shook off with disgust, “but I’m not going to play your little game with you. It’s beneath me. It’s beneath _anyone_ , really.”

As the blonde slanted his glare in his opponent’s direction, he lifted his chin in some vain attempt to match Urquhart’s impressive height. “ _That’s_ rich--”

“Don’t make me explain again,” Urquhart cut in placidly. “Run along, Malfoy.”

There was a moment where Malfoy seemed frozen, cornered. A tension in his stance, an unease to his expression, a focused intent to his gaze, all infused with expectant potency. Wound tight. Bracing. Then, in a truly surreal fashion, when it seemed as if the boy could be no more taut, the whole of him _snapped_.

A flash of blue light crashed with a sizzling _boom_ against Rhys’s hastily constructed shield. The second wands were drawn, the crowd recoiled, scattering from the epicenter of the clash. Cleo herself could only watch on in shock as students rushed past, some merely seeking a safer vantage point, while others fled the scene in search of teachers.

Hardly any of the protesting group broke ranks, though from the midst of them came a horrific scream, a small brunette squeezing past the crowd as her hand was held out in Rhys’s direction. “Rhys! Darling! You can’t--!”

Rhys, composed as ever, held up his free hand to halt her before he returned his gaze to Malfoy. “This isn’t going to get you anywhere, Malfoy,” he informed the boy, sounding oddly amused, considering the circumstances. “If you’re itching for a fight, I’m just not the proper candidate.”

Cleo could see the slight tilt to Malfoy’s head, the strange energy from earlier having dissipated. In its stead, Malfoy stood before Rhys, wand still held aloft, looking almost… resigned. His tone, however, didn’t match his demeanor. “Maybe so,” he mused, head dipping down to watch as his other hand wriggled something free from his pocket. Cleo couldn’t make it out, other than to distinguish its more obvious features -- small, shiny, round…

Whatever it was, he rubbed his thumb over the surface of it, before addressing Rhys again: “But I’d wager in about--” he flipped the device open, glancing down at it once more, “five or so minutes, your little assembly will be broken up.” The boy looked up again, an exaggerated frown pitching the corners of his lips down, taunting. “What a pity.”

It was unsettling, the shift in Rhys’s countenance: An unnatural, hideous metamorphosis that made the large boy appear truly _monstrous._ There was no hesitation about him and, in a horrific lurch forward, a bellow burgeoned from him, so violent it rumbled the very foundations of the castle.

Spell after spell after spell was launched at Malfoy, but-- he took every blow. Perhaps Urquhart was too quick for him, the ruthlessness of his onslaught crumbling whatever counter Malfoy may have had, but he never _once_ raised his wand to defend himself. By the time the fifth or so spell had connected, Malfoy was heaped on the other side of the Entrance Hall, looking half dead.

A few from the Slytherin crowd were alarmed, their screams scattering into the fray, a mix of questions and pleas: _Rhys, what are you doing!? Stop! You’re going to kill him! What’s gotten into you?!_

But there was one shout, above all the others, that had the most palpable effect.

“ _Seorso!_ ”

It thundered from the doorway to the Grounds, careening into the tumult, not only immediately separating the two quarreling bodies, but every student surrounding, parting them effortlessly to opposite ends of the hall.

Cleo collided with a marble ornament perched on the banisters of the front steps, her arms wrapping the neck of a gryphon to keep herself from falling. When she looked up, she could see what everyone else was staring at, aghast:

Professor Tenenbaum, spindly little arms outstretched and hoisted to her left, the tiny trunk of her torso twisted as she stared at the convulsing body of Urquhart, struggling to break free of the bond that held him against the wall.

From her right, Professor McGonagall strolled up quickly, obscuring her. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice echoing in the large expanse with a familiar, angry waver.

No one answered. A few heads darted to Malfoy, still curled up on the floor. Was he even breathing?

McGonagall glided to him, her wand raised at her waist. It wasn’t long before she was knelt at his side, a slew of cursory diagnostic spells traveling in a deluge from her mouth, ribbons of color cascading and hovering about his limp form.

The next series of events were so rushed that they bombarded into one another: the urgent flow of McGonagall’s spellcasting uproariously interrupted by another scream from behind her; the sound of the brunette from earlier, desperately pleading: “Rhys, no!”; the harsh slap of the boy’s feet as he pushed his way toward the unconscious Malfoy; the quick, clinical trill of McGonagall’s voice, reverberating all around them; the ugly, fleshy _thump_ as Petrificus took hold, with Rhys falling to the floor, unnervingly inert.

In a moment, the brunette was draped on top of him, wailing. It was only then that Cleo was able to recognize her: The girl from the library. The one named Ann. Considering their previous rendezvous, it was a wonder that she was attending an event like this at all. But from her behavior alone, it seemed she cared for Urquhart a great deal.

The Slytherins standing in the periphery were clearly shaken -- some even _furious_ \-- but none of them foolhardy enough to even _think_ of approaching McGonagall, much less _address_ her.

It all happened so fast, it dawned on Cleo very belatedly to question _how_ Rhys had broken free in the first place -- she wasn’t alone in this, apparently, evidenced by the uneven, bewildered voices that had only just thought to acknowledge the other professor.

There was a shout from the left. “Professor Tenenbaum?”

She was slumped over in her wheelchair, breathing shallow and ragged. Even from the distance, Cleo could see the droop in her eyes, threatening to shut.

“Oh, Merlin! Professor McGonagall, something’s wrong!”

The woman in question had risen from her place on the ground, herding the crowd with the authority of her voice alone. “Go to your classes, all of you. Immediately. Dawdlers will have points taken, or worse. _Go_.”

The mob dispersed on command, lumbering in a wide berth around the bodies at the center of the circle. Cleo didn’t move as quickly as the others: She saw McGonagall bend down over Ann’s shoulder and say something she couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it bade the girl to rise and head in the direction of the stairs, her steps hastened by the threat of some promise that none else were privy to.

McGonagall had the two boys in a float behind her. From over the passing heads, Cleo watched as she approached Professor Tenenbaum’s heaving form. They spoke, Professor Tenenbaum only seeming to barely keep conscious. Cleo’s head ducked down when she saw Professor McGonagall look up again, to observe the march of students shuffling past them.

Cleo escaped into the dungeons and didn’t allow herself to witness the rest.

It was fortunate that she heard from Cal on Saturday; she needed an escape from the somber atmosphere that had taken hold of the Common Room shortly after the _incident_.

Her boots crunched on iced-over snow littered with hundreds of mismatched footprints. Along the path, the unseasonal snow dusted every stone divider, every lamp-post, every pine needle. The chill wind sapped any warmth the sun might have offered, but its rays still garnished her path with frosty glitter.

Brighton was certainly no stranger to cold weather, but Cleo liked to walk to Hogsmeade on these days, when the unfettered drifts of snow were allowed to roam free and sprinkle the countryside. Snow seemed altogether more an adornment than an annoyance, here. When the town finally came into proper focus, and she passed by the homey facade of the Three Broomsticks, Cleo decided to wander for a bit longer. After all, it couldn’t hurt.

Hogsmeade was busy, but not crowded. Outside of her yearly trips to Diagon Alley, she hadn’t had much chance to observe wizards; their peculiar sense of style had always struck her as bizarre, but this day most everyone was bundled in thick robes and fur. Despite the biting cold, several merchant stalls boasted their wares. Bright, star-speckled awnings shielded their owners from the sun while they conversed and haggled at astonishing speed; Cleo could hardly even keep up with what they were saying, much less interject. Here and there were all kinds of strange objects that Cleo had never heard of: peppermint bark that the seller claimed was carved from an _actual_ peppermint tree; a wide array of toy wands which varied in color, size, and function; a collection of rocks and gemstones which were said to control the weather within a certain radius; and a selection of hundreds of miniature items, evidently intended as romantic gifts for lovers.

Intrigued, Cleo wandered closer to survey what was on offer. Spotting her, the merchant chimed in her direction, “Ah, Miss! Looking to impress with a Flourishing Favor? These wee trinkets are certain to swell along with your passions!”

She waved a hand, her smile contrite. “Ah, no, not for me, thank you--”

Then, within the next moment, a force like a strong wind careened into her, nearly bowling her over with its intensity. The only thing that kept her standing was the two gangly arms wrapped tightly around her middle, and the instant knowledge that they were _familiar_.

Giddy laughter blared directly in her ear. “ _Clyde!_ ”

Her arms crossed over her abdomen, tightly gripping the ones that held her, as she leaned back against his body. “You _idiot!_ ” she joked, before twisting herself in his grip enough to embrace him fully. “I thought you’d finally given up on that Clyde nonsense!”

With an almighty “Ha! Never!”, he lifted her off her feet with the force of his excitement. Then, a moment later, was obliged to admit, “Ouch, you’re too much taller than me for that.”

She shot him a look. “Well, at least you said _tall_.”

He settled her back on the ground before letting go, holding her shoulders at arm’s length. Caleb, rather than looking red and raw from the late-autumn chill, was instead the picture of joviality. His blue eyes alight with mirth, his flat, wispy brown hair peeking out from underneath his beanie, the haphazard clasp of his robe, strained by the vitality of his movements… He hadn’t changed much at all. With a wide, brilliant smile, partially obscured by his knitted green scarf, he made an expansive gesture. “It’s been a millenia, Cleo! You look _fantastic!_ ”

Her hands reached up to pull the beanie down over his forehead. “I can’t believe you’re still wearing this old thing.”

Cal’s gloved hand reached up to his head instantly. “How do you mean ‘old’?” he chuckled with a mischievous squint. “Did you gave me your grandad’s hat, or what…?”

“I’m just surprised my mum’s knitting lasted this long,” she teased.

“Well, it’s a touch frayed, I’ll admit-- on account of my wearing it pretty much every day.”

“You do _not,_ ” she laughed.

“What can I say? My head is very cold.”

Her hands lowered to his cheeks, cradling them. “It’s really nice seeing you, Cal.”

He beamed at her before saying, “Well, if that’s how you really feel, then see me more often!”

She glanced over her shoulder, body tensing inward against a shiver. “Should we head in somewhere, then? I didn’t expect it to be so cold out.”

“Let’s,” he agreed, dancing in place to ward off the chill. “The Warming Charm on this robe isn’t what it used to be.” Looping his arm with hers, Cal tried to regally march them through the gathered masses, but was instead pelted in the head by a dislodged chunk of snow.

“How ‘bout that weather, huh?” she joked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Truly,” he commiserated, brushing off his beanie. “It’s not quite November, and yet here we are, looking like a winter wonderland. What’s up with Scotland, anyway?”

“Like you care,” she accused, smirking.

His shoulders rolled upwards, a smile curling his lips. “Caught me,” he quipped. “But hey! I love a good blizzard when it means I don’t have to go into work.”

“ _Blizzard_ ,” she balked, nudging her shoulder into his. “In your dreams.”

“They _are_ , actually!” Cal insisted, eyes bulging as he gestured with his looped arm. “My mind conjures all sorts of mysterious weather phenomena in the night, though all of them have the same purpose of rescuing me from my responsibilities.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, what are you thinking, anyway? I ate before coming but I wouldn’t mind sitting in with you if you were hungry.”

“I’m full up from this morning still,” he commented. “Mum’s doing. But I could kill for a cuppa.”

“Three Broomsticks it is,” she breathed, craning her head over her shoulder.

It was a short walk to the establishment and Cleo made quick work of finding them a table near the fire as Caleb went to order himself a drink. She’d only just taken off her scarf when he came strolling up to the table, cradling a porcelain cup of tea in hand, before taking a seat beside her.

“Happy now?” Cleo asked, pulling her chair closer to his.

“ _Very_ ,” he oozed. “Here, smell that. It’s _heavenly_.”

She leaned in, taking the aroma deep as she breathed in. “Oh, that _is_ nice,” she murmured. “Peppermint?”

“ _And_ cocoa and liquorice!”

“Well, aren’t you just a lucky boy?” Cleo shifted in her chair to face him. “But, hey? What’s been going on with you?”

He sighed, shrugging off his robe. “Oh, nothing. That is to say-- more of the same. Mum’s still on about what I should do with my life, et cetera, et cetera,” Cal droned, clearly disinterested in the subject. Then, he seemed to move past it, smiling. “But _you!_  The baby, show me the baby!”

“I’ve only got the photo from when we got home from the hospital,” she confessed, leaning over to dig through her bag. “I had it inside my dad’s old chem text before I lent it out -- I wish I could show you the albums, though. Gabriel’s really cute. Here.”

Snatching the picture from her hand, his face scrunched with some barely-contained emotion. “Merlin, look at him! Like a little puffmallow, isn’t he?” he remarked, cradling the small photo in both hands. There was a pause before he continued: “Oh, right, Muggle pictures don’t move. Forgot. I was starting to wonder why you were so still.”

She leaned against his shoulder, eyes planted on the photo. “It never crossed my mind, really. But it’d be a good idea, wouldn’t it? I’d like to have a photo of him running around Mum’s garden.”

“I think I had a mate once who developed pictures… Want me to ask around?”

“That’d… be nice, actually,” she replied, glancing up at the side of his place. “Yeah, thank you.”

He waved her words away with a hand. “It’s the least I can do, really.”

The least _he_ could do? “Oh, stop that,” she complained, lightly shoving his shoulder.

“ _Speaking_ of, though…” Cal rummaged in his own things before emerging with a flourish, offering a thin book with the same panache one might expect of a sacred treasure. “Ta da!”

“Oh! You actually brought it!” she exclaimed, plucking the book from his hands. She flipped through the pages, enthralled. “It’s so cute! Gabriel will love this so much.” She cradled the book to her chest. “Thank you, Cal. Really. This was sweet.”

He humored her with a small smile, hands huddled around his cup before he took a sip. The next moment, however, he was surveying her with premeditated intrigue. With that oh-so-familiar inquisitive look in his eye, he ventured: “So, uh, not to bring up the _boggart_ in the room…”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you?” she mused, furrowing her brow.

Cal lifted his hands, simpering. “Guilty,” he admitted. “Can't blame a guy for being curious, though. Last I heard, ol’ Benjy was resting on his laurels on the whole… having a baby thing.”

She busied herself with packing the children’s book into her bag. “I don’t know where he is, and I don’t really care either,” she said finally. “It’s funny, Dad tried to give him a chance to step up. Actually went about sending an _owl_ before my procedure to tell him where we were so he could come meet his son if he ‘wanted to be a man about it’. Never heard a wink. Not then and not for two years since.”

He grimaced. “Right--! Forget that scummy bastard, then.”

“It’s what I get for letting a Gryffindor knock me up,” she admitted with a rueful chuckle. “I’m never going to live that one down, I don’t think.”

“I doubt it,” he smirked. “And after all that effort, trying to convince everyone you’re such a mean, green snake!”

“I’m really not,” she pressed, laughing a bit harder. “Snape nearly had my head about Harry Potter over it, no joking. It was horrid.”

Cal’s eyes about popped out of his head. “You having me on?” he asked, gripping the table for emphasis. “Snape? Seriously?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” she groaned, resting her hand on his arm. “No, listen. It was stupid! He’s like a kid, right? And I’m in this bloody N.E.W.T. class, he has no idea what he’s doing, and Snape is ripping him to pieces -- but it’s so one sided? It’s like watching some grumpy old man kick a puppy. So I got dumb and stood up for him. My mistake, I guess, because the second class is over, Snape’s practically _accusing_ me of barking up Potter’s tree. Honestly?”

She closed her eyes, head shaking as Cal started seizing up with laughter. “First, gross? He’s a baby? No way? Second, oh my God? Where’s _that_ coming from? I didn’t know he was so bitter, Cal! I didn’t!”

“Merlin-- _actual_ Snape, talking about you and the wee Boy Who Lived--!” he wheezed, laying his forehead in one hand. “I can’t even wrap my mind around that.”

“Neither can I, really,” she admitted, settling down. “It threw me off kilter, if I’m honest with you. How are you supposed to respond to something like that?”

Cal settled his elbows on the table, gesturing with both hands. “You have to wonder, though-- I mean, I’m mystified that he even thought to mention it,” was his comment. “I’ve always figured that Snape was just this sexless ghoul.”

“Oh _ew!_ ” Cleo declared, recoiling away from the table at the very thought. “Ew, Cal! Don’t even put that image in my _head_.”

“I’m only _saying_ ,” he laughed, “it’s a bit weird for him to talk about!”

“I mean, you’re right,” she confessed. “What was it he said?... “ _Wouldn’t want wayward attachments to_ ” -- something. Inhibit me? Distract me? Whatever, but _maybe_ try not to be oddly judgemental of _my_ sex life and just, I don’t know… _Not_ do that.”

“Let’s not fool ourselves, here,” Cal remarked, looking at her sideways. “The man’s not a great teacher.”

“He’s not an _accessible_ teacher,” she corrected, slanting her head in his direction. “I _have_ learned a great deal from him, though. Probably because he only does well with people he doesn’t have to be patient with. He’s got _none_ of that.”

“Just because he's smart doesn’t mean he's good at spreading it,” he pointed out. “I may have held out longer for Potions if not for him.”

“I’m not defending him, Cal,” she pointed out, a tad defensive herself. “He’s a miserable person. I’m just being honest. I have learned a lot under him, is all.”

“So, he’s accepted your advising proposal, then?”

“God no,” she snorted. “Funny, isn’t it? The only damn thing I’m good at, magic wise, and I can’t even get this guy to advise me.”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “See what I mean? If the man had any sense, he’d snatch you up right off. Because you know what? You’re not just good at Potions, you’re _brilliant_ at it, and he’s too stuffed up his arse to see it.”

“Yeah, well,” she sighed. “I guess that’s kind of it for me, then? If he’s going to refuse, then it’s done.”

“Cleo, let me be frank,” her friend said, eyebrows raising. “You have something I’ve always wanted, and that’s _passion_. Goals! A desire to accomplish things! Here-- actually, let’s switch brooms, here…” Cal shifted his weight to his forearm atop the table. “This advising thing? Why do you want to do it? What’s behind this…” He huffed a short laugh. “... shall we say, masochistic streak, that you need Snape for?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” she admitted. “One last shot at doing what _felt_ important to me. Instead I’m ignoring what _is_ important.” Her expression fell. “I’m not there for him, Cal. And it’s _killing_ me. Dumbledore made a whole lot of _promises_ of what I could do to keep in contact, but what does it accomplish? Gabriel’s tantruming constantly, begging me to come home. Time and time again I have to sit there and say ‘I can’t, honey, and for reasons you’ll never understand, and that’ll never be important to you, because what matters to you is the fact that Mummy isn’t there to take you to nursery school, or go trick or treating with you, or to do _any_ of the things mothers are supposed to do.’ And I’m here wondering, how could I be so selfish? What would be worth abandoning my _baby_ like this? And I don’t know the answer anymore, Cal.”

Cleo leaned forward, shoving her face into her hands. “I made a mistake and I just-- I feel like I should go back home.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, where the sounds of the other patrons rushed into their little corner of the pub. Clinking glasses, rumbling conversations, the shuffle of feet on wood. In the midst of it, Cal simply laid a hand on her shoulder.

A laugh, muffled, escaped from the creases in her hands. “You know the worst part?” she asked, her breath hot on her wrists. “How much everyone _believes_ in me. I tried to tell my Dad, you know? But I chickened out. And he’s waving around my acceptance letter to Aberdeen, telling me _step one completed_.” Her hands drew downward to rest on her neck and a damp glimmer shone on her cheek.

“Step one,” she repeated softly, glancing to the ceiling. “Like I was accomplishing what I _promised_. Step one, get into Aberdeen, because they have a good pre-med program. Step two, finish my schooling in Hogwarts with recommendation from one of the foremost celebrated Potion Masters in all of Great Britain. Step three, go to medical school. Graduate. Step four, get an apprenticeship with St. Mungo’s or something similar, whatever Healers will take you under their wing. Step five, _start integrating_.” She shook her head. “Something we came up with together. _Stupid_ , because it’s too simple. It encapsulates _years_ worth of work into something that feels _doable_. And I fuck up before I even complete step one.”

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Cal addressed her, rubbing circles on her shoulder. “You haven’t messed it up, okay? It’s a good plan, a really good one. And you? I know you can do it. Remember when-- I mean, it was ages ago now, but you and I, we found that cute little plant, growing between the stones in the North Tower? And we said, since it was all alone up there, we’d take care of it. And me? I got bored, gave up after a few weeks, but you kept on. Right up until Filch clipped the poor thing off, _you kept on_. You remember?”

“I get it, I’m _stubborn_ , I know,” she replied, miserable. “But--”

“That’s definitely not what I said,” her friend admonished her. “Although you are _that_ too-- more importantly, you care about things, and you stand by them. And I know, I _know_ that you would never have left Gabriel’s side in the first place if this wasn’t important. If it wasn’t worthwhile. Because you’re always out there, making friends with idiots like me, helping people that nobody else will, and, you know, watering plants when no one else cares to.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she disagreed, smiling slightly. “More of a wizard than I am, at any rate.”

He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by his incredulity. “So what, I can sit on a broom. I can rattle off the outcomes of fifty or so battles in the Goblin Wars. I can shoot fireworks out of my arse. If that’s ‘more of a wizard’, then we need less of them. You’re the one with the kind of talent that makes an actual difference in the world.”

“ _Now_ you’re exaggerating,” she argued, visibly uncomfortable. She couldn’t even recognize the person he was describing, anyway. It didn’t match any understanding she had of _herself_ , at any rate. “Besides, you’re leagues ahead of me. Shoveling dung or no.”

Cal coughed, uncomfortable. “Actually, uh… I’ve been doing it for a year and a half. I… didn’t even finish my N.E.W.T.s.”

She shrugged. “It’s still an honest job,” she pointed out. “I’d be cashiering at a TESCO to raise my son if I wasn’t blessed with generous parents. There’s no shame in it.”

“You wouldn’t think so, the way my Mum keeps going on about it,” he countered, droll. “But that’s not really my point. All I’m saying is, the things that you want to do? The things you think are important? They aren’t a waste of time. And I’m sure your old man knows that, too. That’s why we both want to see you succeed, even if _Snape_ doesn’t.”

“It’s not a matter of how _Snape_ feels about it,” she countered. “He gave me a chance, and I was unprepared.”

“Did he though?” Cal questioned, voice thick with doubt. “I mean, how much of this did you even tell him? You’ve got this whole _plan_ that you made with your dad, and I bet Snape didn’t even bother hearing it.”

“I wouldn’t even tell him _that_ plan,” she shot back, scandalized. “It’s stupid. It’s not like… It was just a way to make things seem possible to do, is all.”

“It’s not stupid!” was his objection. “None of this is stupid, it’s your _life_ , your career, your contribution to the bloody world! He hasn’t got any right to ignore it!”

“He’s not _ignoring_ it,” she argued. “He gave me a chance. Even after I’d gone and lost all of Slytherin’s House Points. He expected _one_ thing of me and I couldn’t do it. It’s on me, Caleb.”

“You lost… _all_ of Slytherin’s points?”

“Yes, I did,” she confessed, humiliated. “I’m lucky he didn’t murder me on the spot--”

“Oh, _please_ \-- if that’s true, then that settles it, yeah? The man’s a monster about his stupid House. First he takes issue with you leaving school, then he’s making nasty insinuations about you and another student, and now this? He thinks he can get away with taking his personal grudges out on you? It’s disgusting, is what it is. You ought to complain straight to the Board--”

“And say what?” she asked, exasperated. “This mean old man won’t advise me like I want him to? What leg do I have to stand on? I can’t just _ask_ for things, expecting everyone to just toe the line and hand it to me without anything in return! I’m not a child, Caleb!”

He rubbed his face with both hands, heaving out a breath. “I know you’re not. But this is about _him_ , Cleo. You’re doing everything right, and yet you’re being punished because Snape is the one who’s a bloody child.”

“What have I done right, Caleb?” she challenged, feeling much more heated than she ought have. “Seriously. What have I _actually_ done correctly?”

There was a pause, where he was clearly casting about for the proper thing to say. “It’s-- It’s not like I’ve got a list, but you’re _always_ on top of things. You’ve got the plan, the vision… I know you’ve put work into this. You’ve made sacrifices by being here. And here’s Snape, throwing all that in the bin like it doesn’t matter? I won’t stand for that, and neither should you.”

“I’m not entitled to his time, attention, or consideration,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair.

“ _Yes_ , you are!” Cal argued, punctuating his statement with a sharp thwack on the table. “He’s your teacher! Your Head of House! It’s in his literal job description!”

“He’s _not_ obligated to advise me! That’s a _special_ position! If I were him, I wouldn’t bloody well advise me either!”

At this, her friend puffed himself up, his gestures coming even more staccato. “No-- look. You’ve put up with that git for years, done all the work, let him walk all over you. And you’re going to let him slink away, just like that? _No_.” In all their years of friendship, Cal had never looked so deadly serious. “Isn’t it time he gave something back to you, after all the shite you’ve had to deal with from him?”

“It’s not that simple,” she protested, frowning. “He doesn’t _owe_ me anything. And I haven’t had to _deal_ with his nonsense… If anything, _he’s_ had to--”

“ _Don’t_ start that,” Cal demanded, a barbed edge to his tone. “If you ask me, Snape’s got a lot to answer for.”

“Answer for? What in the world do you think he has to _answer_ for?”

“The way he treats his students! The way he treats _you!_ ”

“If you have personal umbrage with him then _fine,_ I can’t blame you for that. But he hasn’t treated me like _anything_ \--”

“You know what?” he cut her off, snatching his scarf from the table. “I do. I _really_ do.” Cal stood up from his seat, throwing a few Sickles onto the table and fumbling around with his gloves.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Cleo scoffed, observing him with disbelief. When no response was forthcoming, she leaned forward, just barely catching his wrist as he began to stride away from the table. “Seriously. What’re you doing?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “If you won’t defend yourself, then _I will_.”

A long line of bickering trailed behind them, spanning the entire length of their procession to Hogwarts.

“You’re not even a student anymore. You can’t go in there.”

“Watch me! What the hell are they going to do about it?!”

“I don’t know, let’s think-- stop you? Contact your family? Your _boss?_ You could lose your job?”

“Good, my job’s rubbish anyway.”

“What’s yelling at Snape even going to _accomplish_ , Cal? For God’s sake-- Will you slow _down?_ ”

“I have five years of words for that man, and I’ve waited around long enough.”

“So, what? You go in there, yell at him, and then what? You feel better?”

“Yeah! Maybe! And you know what else? After that, I’ll make sure that sack of shite never sets foot in a classroom ever again--!”

“Do you even understand how ridiculous that sounds?!”

“What’s ridiculous is how he’s been allowed to destroy the hearts and minds of children for so long without repercussion!”

“Then lodge a complaint with Dumbledore!”

“I will!”

“Great! I’ll walk you there!”

“But first, I’m going to look that bloody toe rag in the eye and give him a taste of his own medicine!”

“All you’re going to do is find yourself at the business end of his wand--”

“The fact that you think it’s plausible for him to _attack_ me is exactly the problem, Cleo.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you! He’s an unmitigated _jerk!_  He’s mean, cruel, vindictive--”

“Lovely! Then you won’t mind me teaching him a lesson in _manners_ \--!”

“I’m saying it’s not damn well _worth_ getting in a fight you can’t-- Caleb? Caleb!”

Acting on instinct and anger, Cal plunged himself into the dungeons, jostling a couple of wayward Ravenclaws on their way up from class. He traversed the dungeons with surprising familiarity and speed and, by the time she caught up to him, Caleb had pushed himself halfway into the man’s office. No knock, no preamble, he just burst through the threshold, fists still balled up tight in fury.

“Where do you get off, you absolute _cun--_?!”

“ _Caleb!_ ” Cleo shrieked, wrenching herself through the door.

The exchange only lasted a few seconds at most, but, to both their surprise, Snape had his wand aimed in their direction before they even registered his movement.

She froze, mouth latched shut in an instant.

Cal, on the other hand, had quite a lot to say. “Going to threaten us right off, then? Cutting to the quick already?”

The professor’s expression darkened, wand arm settling back at his side. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, tone sharp.

“Caleb, _please_ \--”

“I told you, Cleo, I won’t stand for--!”

She strode up beside him, glowering. “You’re not _helping_ me--”

Snape’s voice cut through theirs. “Explain yourselves, or get out of my office.”

“You aren’t my superior, which means I don’t have to listen to your _shite_ any longer,” Cal shot back, rising to the challenge.

The man graced him with a twist of the lip and a bored stare. “Neither am I obligated to hear yours.”

“Look, Snape, you’ve had a good run--”

“Caleb _stop--_ ”

“-- but when you flat-out ignore the honest efforts of your students just to satisfy this... This _heinous_ sadistic streak--”

“Caleb!”

“-- you reveal yourself as the loathsome, pathetic bully that you are and, frankly, it’s a wonder you’ve managed to escape the consequences, but _not anymore_ \--!”

Cleo gripped him hard, shoving him toward the door. “STOP IT!”

Cal staggered, visibly startled, but finally, _finally_ shut his mouth. He scowled between her and Snape, his wild outrage clearly evident… There were still plenty of words waiting behind his teeth, itching to burst out.

Her grip on his arm tightened. “Just. _Stop_.”

“You can’t be serious--!“

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? What this was coming to? It wasn’t as if Cal was going to allow himself to leave here, dissatisfied. Not unless there were _results._ She hated her hand being forced like this. “Just -- go outside.”

“ _Why--_?“

“ _Go_ outside.”

He stared at her in abject disbelief, caught between frustration and confusion. Then, his glare slid sideways, honing in on Snape. With little warning, he turned away, grabbing the door as he stalked out and slamming it with such force that Cleo could hear the boom reverberate through the Potions classroom.

Her eyes remained locked on the closed door long after Cal abandoned them and the agitated quiet bled back into the room.

Snape’s voice traversed the space to her. “Miss Croft--”

“I’m _so_ tired,” she groused, her hand reaching up to hold the side of her face. “I am so, _so_ bloody tired, Snape. And I’m just… _done_.” Not like it mattered. Not like he _cared_. “I’m already halfway out the gates anyway, so--” _Whatever. Let’s do this._

Her body pivoted and she approached the professor’s desk, rushed; without a single consideration for how her actions might appear, her outer robe was thrown atop a nearby chair and her hands worked to unlatch the bottom buttons of her blouse.

Attention drawn by her actions, the man’s eyes darted to her midriff before locking onto her face, narrowing, a wary slant to his head. “Whatever it is you're hoping to accomplish with _this_ \--”

“Oh would you just _shut up?_ ” she ordered, her face drawn in concentration.

In a moment, she finished, stopping just short of her chest as she pulled the cloth apart. There, a scar, gnarled, rough and haloed by stretch marks, twisted upward from under her skirt, reaching until it clung to the bottom of her bellybutton. Her stomach clenched against the dank chill of the dungeons and she glanced down, grimacing, before looking Snape in the eye again.

“Seven months into my pregnancy, I got sick,” the words clamored out of her, as painful as the memory they recalled. “It started with a headache. I’ve never really had headaches before. But my son’s pregnancy was hard on me; there wasn’t a day when I wasn’t feeling awful. The odd thing was though, the headache didn’t go away. For five straight days, it didn’t leave. That’s when my dad knew something was wrong.”

Snape did not interrupt this time, a clear indication that she had his attention. The man stood very still, expression locked in a neutral affect, simply waiting.

Cleo took in a breath, her eyes closing. “Preeclampsia,” the word sunk from her bottom lip, lumbering, bloated on its own gravity. “Pretty easy to diagnose. One urine test. _One_ urine test and I was burdened with the most loaded choice of my life -- deliver my son early and hope that he could survive, or die.

“The _thing_ that nobody told me, though,” she paused, her eyelids fluttering open to watch him again, “was that Muggle medicine is dangerous for magical people. And that simple fact nearly killed us both.”

An embittered, self-effacing chuckle dislodged from her throat. “My doctors didn’t know what to make of it. They ended up calling it an anomalous anaphylactic reaction to anaesthesia.” Her gaze flickered to her scar, fingers tightening reflexively against her blouse. “The rub of it, though? It was still my best choice, because there wasn’t a better one. The Wizarding World has no idea what Preeclampsia is, much less how to deal with it. In fact, I later learned that the whole of maternity is _untouched_ by magical medicine.

“And here _I_ am, going to an OB/GYN, as if I wasn’t inherently different from the Muggle practitioner in front of me. Magical bodies, non-magical bodies -- they have the same parts. They function similarly. And as it turns out, they experience the same diseases, too. The only difference is, the Muggles understand what to do. Wizards _don’t_.”

She rest her hands just above her abdomen, the gesture so familiar that it made her insides twist. “I couldn’t explain it,” Cleo murmured, eyes plummeting down to gaze at her stomach. “It’s hard for me to feel much about the Wizarding World. But this made me… _so_ angry. Because if I _had_ gone to a Healer, what would they have done? Even if somehow they figured out I needed to deliver early, how would they have helped my son survive? Thirty two weeks, his lungs weren’t even fully developed. He couldn’t even _breathe_ on his own for God’s sake--”

She clenched her eyes against a sting and she swallowed hard, fingers digging into her stomach. “I shouldn’t have gone through that,” she uttered, slowly, with more conviction. “No witch should _ever_ have to go through that. It was _needless_. For _years_ I couldn’t make myself feel a _damn_ about what happened here -- but the _second_ after I woke up not knowing whether or not my son was alive--” She sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth. “I wanted it to change. I _wanted_ to change it. _That’s_ why I’m here. _This_ \--” she emphasized, raking her nails across the jagged edges of her scarred-over incision, “is why I’m here.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “ _Right_ now, I have a two year old at home, who has no _bloody_ idea why his mother has decided to just _fuck_ off to God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what because, _for once_ , I felt like I could do something good _here_. And at this moment, _you_ are what literally decides whether or not I give that up and go home, _where I should be_ , and have a different kind of life with my family.”

Her fingers scrunched up the fabric of her skirt, heaving up higher on her legs as she scowled. “So if you could find some piddling token of generosity within you, I’d _implore_ you to _please_ advise me, Professor Snape.”

There was a protracted moment between them, then. He still hadn’t moved, nor given any semblance of a reaction. Despite the man’s stillness, Cleo could tell the air around them was not empty; the sound of her voice was diffused all around, and the professor, surrounded by it as he was, seemed to be in contemplation, his black eyes probing her face.

The attention was distinctly uncomfortable, the silence disheartening the longer it continued. Then, when Cleo was on the precipice of her unease, he finally spoke.

“I assume you’re finished?” the question emerged from him, jagged and barbed. “Got it all off your chest?”

Her fingers ruffled the hem of her skirt as she clenched it tighter.

The man sighed, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “I see your penchant for imprudent, melodramatic spectacles is unchanged. As is my answer to your ultimatum.”

 _Of course_. Expected. In the very least, it gave her _clarity_.

Lips pressed in a taut line, she pulled her shirt over her scars, eyes locked on the cruel outline of his face. “Great.” She felt a shift in the air when she broke eye contact, her hands fumbling to button her blouse back together.

“Miss Croft.”

She didn’t stop. She smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt, approaching the chair that cradled her outer robe.

“I did not dismiss you.”

“What more could you possibly have to say?” she mocked, a harsh laugh tearing itself from her lungs. “You’ve been clear. You have no intention of advising me.”

There was a sour edge to his tone. “I have little choice when there is nothing to advise.”

 _That_ , above all else, stilled her. Winded, her voice snapped up to him before her head could: “What?”

The man was ensconced in much the same position, except his arms were folded and his glare was more acute. “You still have not offered a proposal.”

“But I just told you what I--”

“You have stated your motivation, not your goal,” Snape interrupted her. “Noble as your _intentions_ may be, I can do nothing with them.”

She scoffed at him, incredulous. “Did you even _listen_ to a word I said?” she balked. “I _want_ to start the practice of obstetrics for witches--”

“And of what use is that to _me?_ ” he pressed.

It sort of snapped into place, then, what he was saying. _Damn it_. Begrudging, her hands crossed over her chest. “You think I’m being too broad--”

He lifted his eyebrows in sarcastic acknowledgement. “Unless, of course, you intended to reinvent an entire branch of magic within two years.”

“ _No_ ,” she shot back, defensive.

The man surveyed her with what she presumed was irritation, or perhaps disgust. Then, with a crisp gesture toward the seat beside him, he remarked, “I cannot fathom why you are so adamant that I be the one to advise you.”

She didn’t move an inch to occupy it. “Does it matter?”

“If you plan to undertake such a lofty and formidable goal,” Snape replied, “then yes, your motivations matter a great deal.”

He wouldn’t care, even if she was honest. What with his utter _disdain_ for emotional displays, she lied through her teeth: “Because you are the foremost Potion Master in the United Kingdom, because you have the _wisdom_ , the _discipline_ \--”

“ _Spare_ me such _sycophantic_ nonsense,” his antipathy tore through her sentence, forcing her silence. “You are, as always, a pitiful liar.”

“It just has to be you, okay?” she insisted, the full weight of her frustration pulsing in her tensed limbs.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t care what you believe. It’s _true_. I just _need_ it to be you.”

“If the situation is so very imperative,” the man sneered at her, “then you must have a reason.”

“Because it just _has_ to be--”  
  
“ _Why?_ ”

“Because you were the _only_ person to tell me I was being _stupid_ , you wretched _arsehole!_ ” she barked, the harsh thrum of her voice climbing outward, managing to fill the gaps in the emptiness of that room. “Because everyone’s only ever been _gentle_ with me! No one _ever_ seems capable of telling me the bloody _truth._  I don’t regret Gabriel. I _never_ will, but everyone acted as if my being pregnant as a _teenager_ was some bloody miracle. Even my dad’s _boss_ , who was doing his _very best_ to try to convince me to terminate my pregnancy, couldn’t even force himself to be anything but _cordial_. In all the time I’ve been here, you’ve _never_ lied to me, even if it hurt.

“You were the _only_ one who told me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. You were the _only_ one to treat me as if I had potential to squander. You were the _only_ person who actually got _angry_ at me.” She threw her glance to the wall behind him, frowning.

“I _never_ wanted any of this,” she admitted, voice growing quiet. “This school, this culture, this _magic_. I begged. I raged. I cried. And on that first night, nine years ago, you looked me dead in the eye and you told me, _stop it_. It didn’t matter what I wanted, what I _wished_. I had to deal with what I _was_. It doesn’t matter if Cleo Croft doesn’t want to be a witch. She _is_ one. And when I sat in your classroom for the first time and learned how to brew a Wart-Removal potion, I actually _felt_ something. Do you remember what grade you gave me?”

He didn’t answer, though he did raise his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“‘Troll’. I’d never gotten a grade like that before. And you know what? It was weird. I couldn’t manage to turn a needle into a match, or produce a halfway decent jelly-legs jinx, but _none_ of the other professors would give me anything below an ‘Acceptable.’ Because I _tried_ , right? But _trying_ didn’t matter to you.” She looked back at him. “‘Success isn’t measured in effort.’ You told me that. And it never really clicked for me until I was looking at your feedback and _finding_ something valuable in it. You’d write on my essay: ‘How could you possibly delude yourself into thinking that Flobberworm Mucus can be used as a base for ageing potions?’ and I would realize that I didn’t know. So I would look it up. I’d _learn_ something. I’d come back to class and I’d do _better_ because it _meant_ something when I could get Professor Snape to look me in the eye and tell me that what I’ve accomplished is _worthy_.”

She breathed in deep through her nose. “You are cruel, vindictive, exhausting, infuriating and completely unapproachable,” Cleo listed, catching his gaze once more. “But you are a teacher who has meant more to me than any other. You are the only one who made me feel like I _belonged_ here. That I had something to _offer_. That made me feel that if, given the time to really _work_ , I could actually accomplish whatever I set before me.”

The professor stared at her a moment. His expression was… caught in-between. Not angry, but also not pleased, if the deep lines of his frown were anything to go by. Still, the fact that he had bothered to listen at all was as bolstering as it was mystifying.

“Be that as it may…” Snape, at length, addressed her, his arms crossed taut. “Without an actual proposal, the result is unchanged.”

He said “the result” as if it had nothing to do with him. Like it was impersonal. Out of his hands. His point, however, appeared to her in sharp focus. She’d offered nothing for him to advise. Nothing concrete, at least. Nothing that could be accomplished in the span of two years.

It was daunting when put into that perspective.

Nothing that a silly _five step plan_ could ever attain.

Cleo shifted on her feet, body swaying back on an instinct to exit the room. “Great,” she repeated, falsely chipper. “We’re done here, then. Thanks for your time.”

“Miss Croft.”

Hadn’t they already done this? This time, she refused to stop as she addressed him, gathering her outer robe and draping it over her forearm: “What?”

“One request.”

The man pushed off from the desk, returning to the seat behind it as she prompted: “And that would be?”

Snape let her words hang in the air briefly as he wound his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “When you supply me with your _actual_ proposal this Friday evening, not a _minute_ after seven, and _without_ a chaperone,” he drawled, his gaze pointed. “Do me the courtesy of knocking first.”


	7. Dichotomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our longest chapter, somehow shoved out the fastest of all of them! Writing this was fun and... Merry, despite the hurdles life throws our way, I am happy we are doing this together. I could not ask for a more perfect writing partner. We've done this for ten years and it has always been the brightest aspect of my life. I love you. I am proud of you. Here's to ten more years.
> 
> Thank you, as ever, to our lovely beta Henry, who provides all the best insight and commentary a writer could ever want.
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 8: Probability

“Harry? Harry! Are you listening?”

His eyes refocused on Hermione as he returned to his senses. “Uh, yeah-- of, of course…”

The look she gave him was as patient as it was skeptical. “Well then, what did I say?”

“You, er… Something about a… a plant…?”

“Yes,” was her dry affirmation. “Believe it or not, we are studying plants in Herbology.”

He blinked, the corners of his mouth turning down as he realized how thick he sounded.

“Harry-- are you feeling alright? You’re not really…” Hermione offered him a sympathetic frown. “I mean, if you want to take a break, we can.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he insisted, rousing himself with a deep breath and a quick slap on his cheeks.

“You’ve been really tired lately,” she observed, brushing a tuft of hair behind her ear.

Shrugging, Harry sighed. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I would imagine not,” she observed, leaning into her hand. “Are your… _extracurricular_ activities more strenuous than expected…?”

He frowned. His late night excursions for the Order could very well have something to do with misaligning his sleep schedule, but to admit that to Hermione might provoke worry. “I wouldn’t say _strenuous_ ,” Harry commented, stretching his neck out. “More annoying than anything else.”

“Annoying?” she inquired, her nose wrinkling. “I thought this was something you wanted--?”

“Well, yeah,” he replied. “But I didn’t want it with _Snape_.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” Hermione conceded before she leaned closer to him. “I’m still not certain what the Headmaster is attempting to accomplish with that.”

He shrugged. “Who knows?” Then, his eyebrows lowered as he suggested, conspiratorial, “Wonder if he actually means for me to keep an eye on him? Make sure he doesn’t do anything dodgy.”

“No offense, Harry,” she asserted, trying to sound much more delicate than she actually did, “but I honestly doubt it.”

“You’re probably right,” Harry sighed, leaning back in his seat. “But it leaves a better taste than Dumbledore just _liking_ Snape. I mean, that whole bit about how Snape’s _so great_ at everything, and the way he just thought it was _so funny_ that Snape was being accused of hurting a student… It was awful.”

“It is a touch… difficult to understand,” she admitted, mouth twisting. “But in the very least, you aren’t going to have to see him _privately_ for a while.”

“Actually,” he groaned, “I’ve another meeting tonight.”

“Oh,” she breathed, a bit stunned. “That’s rather quick.”

His mind went to the kidnapped girl, the things Snape had sneered at him in the alleyway. He mumbled, “Yeah. Time is sort of an object, in this case.”

She nodded, the gesture affectionate. “Well, if you needed to get some sleep, I wouldn’t mind--”

“No, it’s fine! I still want to help. After all that work you missed, I figured...”

Hermione reached out to give his hand a pat. “I really appreciate it, Harry, but there’s no need to strain yourself. I know you’ve got your own work to do too.”

“Well,” he slouched in his seat, “if it weren’t for me--”

“ _Don’t_ you start on that again.”

“I just--”

“You’re not responsible for anything except being hopelessly unprepared for that practical.”

Despite himself, Harry huffed a laugh. “Straight to the point, I see!”

Hermione flung her arms above her head, stretching her back over the couch cushions. “True, though, isn’t it? Professor Snape may have it out for you, but you aren’t exactly proving him wrong.”

Harry winced. “Ouch, Hermione.”

“You’re even going on those outings with him, for the _old crowd_ , and not taking a single note during--”

“It’s not a classroom,” he groused, lowering his voice. “I don’t actually have time to take out a quill, you know!”

“I’ve been telling you,” she countered, matter-of-fact, “this year is really serious! It’s already November, and you’re still not caught up on readings, you’re late with your assignments…”

“I know, I know,” he murmured before raising his eyebrows at her. “Maybe I should have left you in the Hospital Wing…”

Harry ducked as Hermione sent a pillow flying his way, laughing. “Harry, _honestly!_  Ron’s been rubbing off on you, hasn’t he?”

“Ha! Yeah, quite a bad egg, that one.”

Hermione glanced toward the window. “Do you suppose he’s actually gone to his detention, or is he skipping that too?”

“Cut him some slack, Hermione. He was really worried about you.”

“That’s not an excuse to skip Transfiguration! And besides, it’s been going on for a while. Haven’t you noticed? He’s almost never showed up to Herbology with us.”

“I, er, sort of… assumed he’d dropped the class?”

“Well _now_ he has,” Hermione fretted. “I just don’t know what’s to stop him dropping them all!”

“I don’t think it’s that serious, Hermione.”

“Well, I do!” she disputed. “I mean, the two of us have things we want to do after school, but what has Ron got?”

Harry shrugged. “Figured he’d work at the joke shop.”

“Maybe,” she granted with an air of displeasure, “but do you really think that’s all he wants to do with his life?”

He’d never really thought about it in those terms. Ron liked to do all sorts of things, but, now that Harry thought about it, he couldn’t recall his friend preferring any one thing over another. He liked to have fun, sure, and normally enjoyed his classes well enough, despite his complaining. But what was it that Ron really, _properly_ , liked to do?

“I thought he might have liked to stay on with Quidditch,” Harry ventured, though his suggestion lacked energy. “Since, you know... that’s what he saw in the Mirror of Erised, back in first year.”

Hermione slanted him a look, pausing her quill. “He was eleven, Harry. You can’t just assume he wants the same things now as he did then-- and, besides, he quit the team, so that should tell you all you need to know--”

“I know,” he stressed, hoping to stop another lecture before it started. “Maybe I could talk to him? You’ve still got a lot of catch up to do, after all...”

The girl before him sighed. “I’ve been trying to get through to him, but-- maybe he’ll listen better to you. I don’t suppose there are a lot of other options at this point.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harry remarked before rubbing his tired eyes. “You know, I’d much rather all three of us get together, but your schedule is brutal, Hermione. I mean--” He gestured to the mountain of books on the table. “ _Somehow,_ you’re still taking on nine classes, when I can barely scrape by with five!”

“Well, as they say, ‘ _scientia potentia est_ ’.”

“... _What?_ Who on Earth says that?” Harry choked out.

“‘Knowledge is power’,” Hermione quoted. “Thomas Hobbes, though of course the phrase originates long before _him_ but -- you _really_ ought to study more Latin, Harry. It helps a lot with understanding spell syntax.”

“Looking to pile even more homework on me?” he chuckled, half in disbelief, his mind going to the Chemistry text in his bag. “I think I’ve got enough already, thanks.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But there’s all sorts of information around that can help you in school, in _life_. The more you know, the easier it is to understand the world, you realize?”

Her philosophy didn’t surprise him, considering Hermione had never met a book she couldn’t devour in a day. But Harry? Reading always gave him a headache, and theory was often hopelessly dull, needlessly convoluted.

Which was exactly why all the extra reading he was doing for Croft was melting his brain.

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry caved, glancing pointedly at the overburdened tabletop. “But we’re not all cut out for your workload, Hermione. I mean honestly-- you’re going for a N.E.W.T. in History of Magic? I’m surprised you haven’t died from boredom.”

“I _like_ history, Harry!” she laughed, snatching the offending text from atop a nearby pile. Then, her mien shifted into thoughtfulness as she looked at him. “Actually… I’ve been meaning to tell you and Ron something… but, um…”

This piqued his interest. “You been keeping something from us?” Harry raised his eyebrows, amused. “Well, come on, then! That guilty look of yours says it all!”

“It’s not a secret,” she insisted, her bashful expression vanishing. “I just didn’t want… a repeat of last time.”

“Last time?”

“I’ve been trying to start a new organization,” Hermione continued, pulling her bag onto the table to rifle through it. “I haven’t given up on S.P.E.W., but there was something else I noticed since this year started. Something that no one else seems to have realized.”

Harry frowned, watching her movements. “What do you mean?”

She pulled a long slip of parchment from her bag, unrolling it on the table. Along one side, there appeared to be a list of book titles. “This here is a list of all the books which have been moved from their normal place to some obscure corner, or have been categorized incorrectly, from last year to now. There’s about thirty in total. And _this_ \--” Her finger traveled to the opposite edge of the page, where there was another, much longer list. “This is all the books which have been removed from the library altogether. I can no longer find them anywhere at all.”

Harry glanced from her to the page. “They could have just been checked out, or lost…”

“Give me more credit than that,” Hermione huffed. “I’ve been to the library every day, all year. I’ve talked to Madam Pince. These books aren’t around anymore, and she says she can’t replace them either, since nobody is selling them. A lot of them are very rare.”

“What about the Restricted Section?” he inquired.

“She says even more have gone missing from there. She’s a very dedicated librarian; I mean, you’ve seen how she gets if anyone even _hints_ that they intend to mistreat a book! The fact that all these are missing, without being checked out, is worrisome.”

Well, that was a puzzle. “Er… stolen, then?”

“Maybe, but by whom? I mean, we are talking hundreds of books that have gone missing, Harry. _Hundreds_. There are entire shelves of the Restricted Section that are cleared out, _gone_. A student would have a hard time managing _that_ , don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably,” he had to admit.

Hermione sat up straighter in her seat, pointing at her list earnestly. “And the real clincher? Most of these books, if not all, were either written by Muggleborns, or were inclusive of Muggle rhetoric, including works with intersectional theory and goals, such as--”

Harry held up his hands in alarm. “Uh, Hermione, you’re losing me…”

She appeared winded as she slumped over again, her top row of teeth gnawing on her bottom lip in thought. “Right. Well, what I mean is -- a lot of these works are what some… _specific_ people would call ‘radical’. Simply for being sympathetic to Muggles, or Muggleborns for that matter!”

“So… the sort of stuff that would make Purebloods mad,” he summarized, resting his chin in his hand. Then, he looked at her in alarm. “Wait-- you don’t think… the Slytherins are stealing the books. Do you?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Hermione murmured, exasperated. “This is hardly the work of students. It would be entirely too difficult--”

“But… you’ve seen them! All those big displays they’re doing! What if they were all in it together?”

Hermione leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “So droves of Slytherins have been piling in -- _secretly_ of course -- to steal all these books, completely under Madam Pince’s nose? And where are they putting these books, Harry? How are they disposing of them -- and so covertly, at that? How are they getting mass permission to access the Restricted Section, without seeming suspicious? How are they--”

“Okay, okay,” Harry groaned. “I get it. But I mean, they’ve done plenty of dodgy things before…”

“ _My_ point, Harry,” Hermione sighed, features softening. “Is that prejudice doesn’t begin and end in Slytherin. This was an administrative decision. The Ministry, most likely. This was the result of politics, not school children antics.”

“Oh.” He frowned, glancing at the scars on the back of his right hand. “You mean Umbridge.”

“It could’ve ramped up with her, yes,” Hermione mused, her hand automatically reaching over to cover his with her palm. “She produced so many Decrees that I often lost track of them, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she started weeding out ‘unsafe texts’ for our _protection_.” Her eyes screwed shut as she held back a sigh in frustration. “But this has been ongoing. And considering how many Purists work within the Ministry _itself_ \-- not to mention the school _board_ \-- I can promise this has long been precedent.”

Harry looked down at her hand atop his. “That sounds…” _Confusing. Sinister. Inescapable._ “... difficult to combat.”

“Maybe,” Hermione replied, pensive. “But, far be it from me to allow something as silly as _difficulty_ to stop me, right?”

“Well then. What _are_ you going to do?”

“I’ve some vague ideas,” she replied, cagey. “I’ll get back to you when I have something more solid.”

“Er… okay?” Harry frowned at her, worried. The last time she’d kept things from him and Ron, she’d been mucking about with time travel!

“Don’t worry about it,” she assured him, but it was hardly any comfort. “Mind handing me my Arithmancy text? Since you don’t seem much for plants at the current moment.”

He leaned around one of the stacks, getting a good look at the spines before locating the one she was asking for. “Here.” He sighed. “You sure you want to skip lunch? You’ve got two classes in a row after this, don’t you?”

She opened the mouth of her bag in display, where some snack bars were teetering, perilously, over the covers of _more_ books. “Don’t worry. I’ve handled a big study session before. I’ll even eat another helping of pudding tonight at dinner, just for you.”

Harry offered her a mock-salute. “Lovely. Now, if only I can live through the rest of this day, I can _maybe_ catch the barest minimum of sleep, and we’ll both be satisfied.”

She took one of her bars out and peeled away the plastic, closing her mouth over a large bite of granola as she stuffed away the refuse back into her bag. “You can go to lunch if you want to,” she said, the words peeking out from under her hand as she used it to cover her full mouth. “Brilliant as you are, I don’t think you’re going to help me much with this.” She unfurled her pinky outward to gesture to her Arithmancy text.

“Ha, probably not,” he mused. “But I, er… technically need to finish reading something before Charms, so… No lunch for me, I think.”

“Oh, Potions?” she assumed, her eyes brightening. “Good idea. Snape might have another practical prepared for tomorrow, I think. I could help you with that--”

“Oh, uh, thanks but no… I mean--!” He tried to head off the protest that was obviously on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah, I’m still behind on Potions, but actually I… got a tutor.”

Hermione stared at him a moment, befuddled. “A tutor,” she repeated, disbelieving.

“I figured, you know, after everything that’s going on this year, I just needed some help.”

“Well, I could have helped if you asked,” Hermione replied, her tone subdued. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction; he thought she would be happy that he was finally taking his studies seriously.

“You help me a lot in all my other classes,” he told her. “And you’ve got enough on your plate, now that I’ve-- er, now that you were laid up in bed for days.”

She didn’t seem convinced, though she moved to open the front cover of the Arithmancy text. “Well, who is it, then?”

“It’s that Slytherin girl, Croft.”

“Wait,” Hermione interjected, squinting. “You agreed to get tutored… by a Slytherin?”

“Well, I was originally supposed to tutor her, but she doesn’t need it, so I uh… kind of asked.”

“You, Harry Potter,” she emphasized, almost as if she were trying to make sense of it, “asked a _Slytherin_ to tutor you?”

“Yeah…” He smiled uncomfortably. “Doesn’t really sound like me, does it?”

“Not in the slightest,” she returned, concerned. “Are… well, are you sure it’s safe?”

He huffed a laugh. “I mean, anything’s safer than Snape, right?”

She was more than skeptical. “Not necessarily,” she broached. “But… You’re sure _she’s_ safe?”

“No idea,” Harry admitted, hauling his bag onto the table. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, but I don’t think she’s really like the others.”

“What makes you think that?”

He glanced around the Common Room, secretive. “To start, she can’t even cast an Incision Spell, so I don’t think she intends to murder anyone. That already puts her a cut above.”

“What do you mean ‘can’t cast’?” Hermione questioned, incredulous.

He shrugged. “She just… can’t. I saw her try, and nothing happened.”

“That doesn’t prove much,” she warned him. “Just, maybe that she has control over her powers. She could’ve been pretending to try.”

“I’m not stupid, Hermione,” he grumbled. “I know when people are trying to trick me, and she just… wasn’t.”

“How do you _know_ , though?” she pressed. “Not to sound like Ron, but you _know_ how well Slytherins can deceive. Not to mention _this_ particular Slytherin has been kicked out of the school once--”

“Actually, she left on her own,” was Harry’s waspish reply. “And seriously, it’s just Potions, we’re not best friends or anything!”

“I certainly hope not,” Hermione said, sighing. “I’m not trying to be mean, Harry. I’m just worried. Considering you’ve already seen her talk to Draco at least once, well…” She let that sentence hang, her eyes dropping down to look at the bar of granola in her hand.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised her, his tone evening out as he reached out to pat her hand. “You’ll see.”

She considered this a moment before hesitating, her shoulders drooping as she looked at him. “Promise me something, Harry?”

“Hm?”

“That if you were doing something like… investigating, trying to get close to Slytherin in order to figure out what Malfoy is doing… you’d tell me?” she asked, her hand turning under his to squeeze his fingers.

That hit a little too close to home, considering why he’d initially contacted the girl in the first place. He couldn’t deny that there was a part of him inherently curious, a part which realized that the more time he spent around Slytherins as a whole, the more likely he was to bump into Malfoy. Catch him in the act. And what with how involved Croft had been in that protest, it seemed that she might be just enough in the thick of it to serve that purpose. But… that wasn’t what he was doing _now_.

… Was it?

“Yeah,” Harry told her, leaning back in his seat again and cracking open the Chemistry text. “Of course I would.”

Fortunately, despite his earlier absence, Ron did show up to Charms later that day. Unfortunately, he was _livid_ to find out what Harry would be up to directly after.

“You did _what_?!”

His outburst was loud enough to pause several students in the process of packing up their things at the end of class. Harry shot him a look of warning. “It’s only tutoring, Ron! Nothing to get your pants in a wad over…”

“You have to be joking,” his friend huffed in the center of his disbelieving chuckle. “Hermione? Please tell me this is some kind of gag.”

Her bushy hair slid side to side as she glanced between the two of them. “Ehm… no. Harry really has got tutoring with Croft.”

“ _Excuse_ me?!” His face was full red, then. “And when were you lot planning to say anything to me? Since apparently everyone is fine with this!”

Hermione sighed. “Harry only just told me this morning, which you would _know_ if you had come to class with us--”

“Oh, don’t _start_ ,” Ron spat, glaring at her.

“Hey, c’mon,” Harry interjected, placing a hand on both their shoulders. “Let’s not fight. And there’s no need to worry, either; I can handle myself.”

“You can’t _trust_ Slytherins, Harry,” Ron told him, point-blank. “You _know_ that.”

“I… I know,” he admitted, eyes falling to their feet, arranged triangularly below them. “And I’m not saying I am. I just…”

Just what? Needed a tutor? Harry knew he could easily have gotten one elsewhere. So, why?

He grimaced, continuing, “Look, I figured I would just… see how this goes. If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out.”

Hermione’s posture changed as she fretted, “Harry, not to be rude, but don’t you think it’s a bit reckless--”

Ron argued, simultaneously, “You’ve had five whole years of seeing how well that’s gonna ‘work out’--!”

“ _Alright_ ,” Harry stressed, irritated. “I get it. You’re worried. But I’m doing this, okay?”

Hermione’s mouth was pressed in a thin line, but Ron immediately said, “Fine. Then I’m coming with you.”

“Ron, that’s not--”

“I let you talk me out of meeting with Dumbledore, but I won’t let you talk me out of this,” his friend argued. “I’m going to be there to make sure she doesn’t try anything funny.”

Harry grimaced. “It’s really not that serious.”

“What could it hurt?” Hermione proposed, cradling her Charms text to her chest. “Besides, Ron could do with a bit of tutoring anyway--”

He immediately rounded on her. “Oi! I’m not taking lessons from some _snake!_ ” Ron objected. “And Potions is rubbish anyway; who needs it?”

With a sigh, Harry conceded, “Fine, if it will make you feel better. But you can’t sit there and run your mouth the whole time; I do actually need to learn things, you know.”

Ron snorted. “Oh, now I’m just a bother to you? Great.”

“Ron, honestly. That’s _not_ what he was saying,” Hermione protested. “He _is_ behind. And although I’m still very skeptical about his choice in _tutor_ \--”

“It will be fine,” Harry insisted. “Honestly. I don’t want to cause any trouble…”

“Pfft, there’s a first,” Ron muttered, shrugging Harry’s hand off his shoulder. “But not to worry, I won’t ruin your little meeting by breathing too loud.”

With that, he stalked off out the door, leaving Harry and Hermione frowning behind him. “I… didn’t mean it like that.”

Her head tilted. “I know you didn’t, Harry,” she assured him. “I-- I just don’t think he’s in a good place right now.”

“Yeah.” He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder. “We’ll uh, see you at dinner, then?”

“Suppose so…” she answered, stepping away. “Save you a seat.”

Offering her a somber smile, his parting statement was a simple, “Thanks.”

Outside, Ron was standing, arms crossed, directly beside Croft, who seemed… Harry wasn’t sure. Confused, perhaps? If it was him, he certainly would be.

“So… my friend is coming with us,” he remarked, direct. “And, uh, speaking of, where are we going for this?”

“The potion workrooms,” she replied, although quite jilted still. “You didn’t mention your friend needed tutoring too.”

“He doesn't,” Harry replied, irked. “And, uh… Workrooms? We have those?”

She frowned. “You didn’t know?”

Instead of answering, Harry glanced at Ron. His friend's face was still sour, but he did grumble, “Snape is the one who reserves them.”

Well. That explained a lot. “Right. Lead the way, then?”

She glanced to Ron again. “Would it be outrageous of me to wonder why you need a chaperone?”

Harry performed an exaggerated shrug. “Beats me.”

Ron scowled at them both, and she had that look about her again. The one where she seemed to want to say something entirely different than what she ended up saying: “Well, more the merrier, then. This way.”

There was an acute awkwardness that clung around their small group as they descended to the dungeons. Things were strained enough with just the two of them, but the added “Ron” element was no help at all. He was sullen and mute, casting a dark pallor over their trip downward. Harry wasn’t sure if he would have felt comfortable making conversation, even without Ron there.

Beyond the Potion classroom was a short, dead-end hallway lined on either side with doors, six in total. Croft approached one, clearly pronouncing, “ _Heath milkwort_.”

The door clicked open, allowing them entrance. The inside was sparse, the workroom simply a little square box with a rectangular table in the center. Four chairs were messily arranged about it, and there was a patch of stone wall that was charred.

“Take a seat wherever,” Croft announced as she pulled her outer robes off her shoulders.

Harry did as he was told, plopping his bag on the tabletop in a manner which ended up sounding far too loud in the small room.

After taking a seat herself, she looked to Ron again, who had taken position against the wall, arms crossed. “You sure you don’t want to sit?”

When Harry glanced up at his friend, it was to witness Ron’s scowl. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“All right then,” Croft said, though it seemed more to herself than anyone else. In a moment, she pulled what looked like a stack of note cards from her bag, as well as the Advanced Potion Making text.

Her lesson started with an apology. “I’m sorry for the Chemistry text thing. I don’t really know what I was thinking. Must’ve slugged through hours of that, huh?”

Harry pulled it from his bag, looking sheepish. “Er… actually, I uh… hardly looked at it.”

“Fair enough,” Croft sighed as she looked at the cover.

“I mean-- I tried! I really did,” Harry mentioned. “It’s just… a lot of it was…”

“Technical, dry, overwhelming?” she listed, casual. “Yeah, I figured. I tend to forget that the way I learn isn’t always… useful to other people, you know?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, handing her the book. “Plus, I think it was just a touch out of my league… I mean, I only went to a few years of primary school, so I couldn’t understand even half the words.”

She appeared instantly regretful. “Oh, God. Right. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s nod was absent-minded. “It’s fine.” His gaze flicked to Ron, who was just watching them. “So. Hermione had me catch up on some readings while I was helping her study, but… not really sure where to start.”

“That’s fine. Considering all this, I feel maybe it’s best for me to start this off by asking you: What methods have sort of helped you learn material in the past? Reading may not be your strong point -- but do you do okay with listening? Or maybe you learn with visuals?”

“Huh.” Harry frowned, pensive. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

“For me, I’m better with visuals. And I also do really well when I can relate certain concepts to others I’m more familiar with,” she gestured to the book. “Hence the Chemistry text--”

“Are you lot honestly going to drone on about the ‘best ways to learn’?” Ron suddenly interrupted them.

“I mean, yes?” Croft answered, not missing a beat. “If I’m going to tutor him, I think it’s kind of necessary?”

“It’s Potions, not Alchemy!” he erupted, making a wild motion with his hands. “So he doesn’t like to read; who does?! What are you really playing at, here, _Croft?_ ”

“Ron, come on--”

“I think we’d have an easier time here if I skip the sniping and just ask you what _you_ think I’m playing at,” she remarked, even keeled.

“Slytherins don’t just agree to tutor Harry Potter out of the _goodness of their hearts_.” He said this as if he very much doubted such a thing existed. “Whatever it is you’re scheming, I intend to find it, even if Harry won’t.”

“Even if she _was_ planning something, it would be stupid to do it right off,” Harry sighed, facing his friend fully.

“And even if she weren’t right here, listening to you,” Croft put in, seeming… well, not _irritated_ but exhausted. “She’d probably point out that harming Harry Potter doesn’t get her anything.”

“Oh yeah?” Ron sneered. “Haven’t got a Daddy who’d be pleased as punch to see Harry _dead_ , have you?”

She laughed, an action that seem to set Ron on edge. “ _My_ Dad? Not at all.”

“Hard to imagine he’d even know who I am, or her mum, for that matter,” Harry cut in. “Seeing as they’re _Muggles_ , Ron.”

His scoff was loud enough to fill the room. “You expect me to believe Slytherin’s got Muggleborns, now? That whole tripe with ‘enemies of the Heir beware’ was just a misunderstood slogan? _Hm?_ ”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Croft averred, pulling the Chemistry text closer to her body. “And I imagine nothing I say would make you feel any better, either.”

“Quit being a prat and sit down like a normal person,” Harry ordered, not nearly as tactful as she had been. “If she hasn’t hexed you yet, I don’t think she will.”

Ron scowled at him. “I’ll stay here, _thanks_.”

He sighed, turning back to Croft. “Don’t mind him.”

“I don’t,” she returned softly, her hand digging through her bag. She paused as she pulled out a few items from within, placing them behind the spine of the Potions text. “About your learning? I’d hazard a guess you enjoy kinetic things. You do well at Professor Tenenbaum’s practicals… and you’re on the Quidditch team, yeah?” She looked him over. “Do you prefer being active? Working with your hands? Find it easier to remember stuff if you’ve actually gone through the motions yourself? Stuff like that?”

Harry shrugged. “Suppose so.”

Croft opened the front cover of the Potions text. “Because Potions, even at advanced levels, is all a game of memorization. And I’m guessing sitting there staring at the book and just trying to brute force the instructions into your head hasn’t been doing the trick so far.”

“No, not really,” he grumbled, glum. “But I’ve got to suck it up if I want to get through these N.E.W.T.s, clearly.”

She didn’t respond for a moment as she thumbed through the pages, engrossed. “Well,” she exhaled. “When I was struggling a bit with studying for my A&P exams, I found what ended up clicking for me was hanging up one of my dad’s old anatomy posters on my wall, and then identifying the parts I needed to by sticking little _Post-It_ notes on them.” She bit her lip, uncertain, before looking his way. “Not that Potions has any sort of visual we can utilize, but the principle is the same. So.”

She scooted closer toward him, pushing the text his way as she grabbed the note cards and placed them in front of him. “I’m pretty sure Snape is going to have us on a Draught of Living Death this week. So we can start there. First off, you’re just going to list each ingredient and step on its own card, so we’ll have a little stack of them. You can use my pen--” He noticed, just then, that she had a small stack of them piled in the area where the text had previously occupied. Reaching for one, she pulled the cap off, before stopping.

Her eyes drifted to Ron and, in a measured shift, rose slightly from her seat and bent over the tabletop, holding the uncapped pen in his direction. “You want to check them first?” she offered, diplomatic.

His expression markedly suspicious, Ron did, indeed, snatch the pen from her grasp. “What is it?” he demanded.

Harry frowned. “It’s a pen. You’ve seen them before!”

“Yeah, but this one looks _different_.”

Exasperated, he said, “Of course it does, there’s all sorts! But it’s _still just a pen_.”

Taking the thing from his friend’s grasp, movements snappy with his irritation, Harry poised it over a note card. For several seconds, he sat frozen in that position, before he turned to confess: “Er… I haven’t got a clue what’s in the Draught of Living Death.”

Croft’s smile was rather tender as she pushed the text closer to him and tapped her finger on the page it was open to. “Figured not. You can copy off.”

Then, unexpectedly, and in a way that struck him as oddly _conversational_ , she looked at Ron. “How do you know about pens?”

Harry surveyed Ron’s reaction. His friend merely shrugged, mumbling his answer. “My dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office.”

“Oh, that’s cool, actually,” she replied, breezy. “I don’t know much about that, but I imagine it’s an interesting job.”

His gaze shifted sideways as he grumbled, “Hmph, _sorta_.”

“Sorta,” she muttered under her breath, clearly picking up on his reluctance to talk. She leaned forward, pulling the Chemistry text open, but only to fiddle with the pages, it seemed.

Harry paused his surveillance to return to the task at hand. The pen glided against the cards much smoother than a quill, a sensation he was immediately grateful for. Still, even the task of writing the ingredients was frightfully dull. _Seven litres of water, one litre of infusion of wormwood, five ounces African sea salt, one hundred ounces of powdered root of asphodel, one full sloth brain, juice of twelve sopophorous beans, three valerian roots, seed of lily of the valley…_

“Wait, what’s--” He squinted at it again. “Lily of the Valley?”

Croft fielded that one quickly, without looking up from the passage she was reading in the textbook. “They’re poisonous flowers. Very pretty. They’re small and their petals are kind of hunched over, like little bells.”

“Oh. Right,” Harry muttered, staring down at the name. “That’s… yeah. Suppose that makes sense.”

Croft did look up that time, appearing a bit perplexed. “How do you mean?”

He waved her off, his mouth at a sullen slant. “It’s nothing. Just… you know. Just kind of stupid, really.”

“I don’t consider any question stupid,” she replied.

“Not really a question,” Harry prefaced. “It’s my mum’s name. Lily. So… Bit strange to see it around a textbook, even if it is the name of a flower.”

The look she gave him was… odd. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, not even when she answered with a soft and vague, “Oh.”

“Yeah, like I said,” his voice meandered, embarrassed. “Nothing important.”

She brought her attention back to the book in front of her. “If it means something to you, then it’s important.” She didn’t let this phrase hang, however. Moments after, she tapped the page she was on again, reminding him: “Be sure to put the steps for brewing on their own cards, too.”

“Right.” He was grateful for the distraction. In no time at all, he had completed the remaining fragments of instructions, laying them out on the table in haphazard mounds.

Croft gathered them all, pilling them on one another like a deck of cards. “So, this will be simple. You’re going to take these note cards, and you’re going to assemble them in the correct order for the potion. You can use the book until you feel confident enough to make an attempt without looking. The point is to associate the movement to memory. To be honest, it’d also help if you maybe did something as you set the cards down in the correct order. Something like a tap, maybe. Step one, one tap. Step two, two taps. So on, so forth.”

Harry took hold of the stack, fidgeting with the corners of the parchment. He placed the first two cards together: _Cut up all 12...,_ and _Sopophorous beans_. Then, glancing up at her, he tapped a finger against the pair, unsure.

“I know it feels odd at first,” she assured him, addressing a concern he hadn’t voiced. “But I swear it’ll tie into your muscle memory. And then during practicals, all it will take is for you to move your fingers and you’ll remember the steps.”

“Muscles don’t have _memory_ ,” came Ron’s grumble as he plopped himself down in a chair across from them. Harry had almost forgotten he was there.

“Not in a literal sense, no,” Croft conceded, patient. “But your brain does. Moreover, you can train it to remember relationships between unrelated things. It’s called associative memory.”

“Well then, you won't be surprised when I use my _associative memory_ to tell you that I think this whole business is rubbish.”

Harry paused his movements, giving Ron a look of exasperation. “Would you give it a rest? That doesn't even make sense.”

Croft merely rested her head in her hand, leaning against the table as she watched him place down a couple more cards. “Well, I suppose it’s a blessing for you that you’re not _suffering_ under my tutelage.”

His friend stared at him, earnest but frustrated. “Even if she doesn't want to kill you--” His gaze shifted to the side to glare at her. “-- which I'm not _ruling out_ , mind -- but even if that was true, what is even the appeal of this… _this?_ ” Ron gestured across the expanse of the room.

“I need tutoring?” Harry remarked, phrasing it like a question to demonstrate his utter confusion. “If I fail Potions, I can't be an Auror?”

His friend's eye roll was brief but snappy. “Oh, please.”

“I know what you're going to say, but don't.”

“You need to face facts, mate,” Ron told him, putting a finger in his direction. “Nobody in their right mind gives two shites about what grade Snape gives you in Potions. If Harry Potter waltzes into the Auror Office in the middle of a dark wizard apocalypse, they aren't going to say no!”

“Look, I don’t have a dog in this race. You’ve been thoroughly heard,” Croft interrupted, sounding annoyed for the first time. “You don’t approve of this set up. So, don’t worry. By Friday, I’ll be out of your hair entirely.”

Harry’s attention relocated to her. “Friday? What’s Friday?”

“A presentation with Snape,” she replied, shrugging. “If it falls through, I’m going home.”

Ron huffed. “What’s the worry? Snape is always guzzling the Gaudens for you Slytherins.”

Harry shared a look of stunned bewilderment with Croft before he frowned at Ron. “He’s _what?_ ”

The redhead squinted at them, seeming just as baffled by their lack of understanding. “Guzzling the-- What, you mean you’ve never heard that?”

Unable to help it, Harry broke into breathy laughter. “No, of course not!”

Croft seemed to be able to cobble together some vague understanding of Ron’s sentiment. “He’s not chomping at the bit to advise me, no. My standing as a ‘Slytherin’ has very little influence on that.”

Ron shrugged, still looking rumpled as he sarcastically replied, “Wow, learning that the man’s a prick all around has certainly improved my opinion.”

“What?” Harry prompted, collecting himself. “Of Snape, or her?”

“Neither! Both!” His friend threw up his hands. “Just don’t like Slytherins, mate.”

He cast his eyes toward Croft, surveying her as she expressionlessly kept on with her reading. Harry ventured, “So, er… you might be gone that soon, then?”

She turned a page. “I’m tired of disappointing my son,” she threw out, casual. “So yeah. That soon.”

His gaze flicked to Ron to examine his reaction, but there wasn’t one at all. He simply sat, arms crossed, watching over the proceedings. Turning back to her, Harry remarked, “I thought you might stay, after…”

He cut off, not really keen on bringing up the topic, even if his mouth was determined to act on his prying nature.

“After?” she inquired, glancing up at him.

Too late now to take it back, he mused with a slight grimace. “After that whole… you know. Slytherin thing, with Urquhart.”

“Why would the protest make a difference?”

“Well, I mean-- obviously it was in your favor,” Harry pointed out. “The bloke singled you out and everything.”

“To emphasize a point,” she countered. “It wasn’t about me. It was about showing discrepancy in Dumbledore’s conduct. What the Headmaster is doing to Slytherin is nothing I agree with, but it’s not where my head is at.”

“What’re you talking about?” Ron cut in.

Harry, hoping to temper whatever his friend might say about the topic, informed him, “There was a Slytherin protest last Friday, where they blocked the Entrance Hall. Didn’t you hear about it?”

Ron shrugged. “Heard Malfoy got in another fight, but what else is new?”

That was certainly a good point. “Yeah, put him in the Hospital Wing. Urquhart nearly smashed him to bits.”

“Serves him right, that minted wanker.”

“We’re getting really off topic,” Croft broke in, sighing. “Harry, you should focus.”

Chagrined, Harry moved to return to his occupation, but Ron blew out a vindicated breath. “Oh _ho_ ,” he uttered, fitting her with a suspicious glower. “Don’t like it when we bad-mouth your good mate Malfoy, eh?”

Apparently well used to this by now, Croft rolled her eyes. “Malfoy? No. He can choke, for all I care.”

Placing another two cards down on the table, Harry heard Ron say, “Oh, that definitely explains why you and him are having little chats down in the dungeons--”

“He wasn’t _chatting_ with me,” Croft corrected him, an undercurrent of anger that he hadn’t ever heard in her tone before.

“Fine, _whispering_ , then,” Ron snapped back.

“He _threatened_ me,” she asserted, her voice strained.

He looked up in time to see the wind fall right out of Ron’s sails. “Sounds about right,” Harry corroborated, sympathetic. Then, he directed his next statement to Ron, “Plus, you should know-- Half these fights Malfoy’s getting in are with other Slytherins. It would be, er…” His look in Croft’s direction was brief. “Be a bit foolish to assume he’s friendly with every Slytherin he’s within five meters of.”

“Alright, fine,” Croft exhaled with displeasure, crossing her arms as she leaned toward Ron. “I give up. This is a complete bloody wash. So just get on with it. Ask what you want to bloody ask.”

Harry’s hand paused mid-tap to stare at them both. Ron, amazingly, seemed suspicious even of this pronouncement. “Yeah? And how do I know you’ll tell the truth?”

“I guess you won’t,” Croft volleyed, undaunted. “But considering the fact you won’t allow Harry to do a damn thing until you’re satisfied that I’m not the devil incarnate, we might as well get it over with.”

The redhead leaned over the table as well, a conspiratorial slant to his glare. “Alright.” He stared her down, both elbows atop the table. “Why’d you leave school?”

Harry tried to diffuse the ire that seemed to be crackling between them. “Ron, come on, don’t do this…”

“I got pregnant,” Croft admitted, deadpan.

Ron didn’t reply, instead rapid firing another question: “How much money did you have to pay to get back in at Hogwarts?”

The laugh that oozed from her was baleful and harsh. “None. I was given permission for a temporary withdrawal from Hogwarts.”

“From _who?_ ”

“Who do you bloody think? The Headmaster.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want with Harry?”

“I don’t want anything? _He_ asked _me_ for tutoring.”

“Why did you come back to school?”

She scowled. “I have a kid. I have to try to make a living somehow, don’t I?”

Ron’s chin lifted, expression unimpressed. “Are you associated with Death Eaters?”

Harry cut in, alarmed, “Seriously, Ron? This is--” He was silenced with a look.

“Just because you’re Muggleborn doesn’t mean you’re automatically clear of suspicion.”

“Right, because jumping in bed with the same fascists who would want people like me executed would somehow be advantageous to me?” she argued, clearly disgusted.

“Had to have jumped in bed with _someone_ ,” he commented, merciless. “So show me your arm.”

Setting Ron with the most hateful glower Harry had ever witnessed, she rolled up both her sleeves without hesitation and presented both her exposed -- and bare -- forearms on the table.

He sucked in a breath, clearly ready to say more, but Harry slammed both hands on the table, legs propelling him to stand. His friend flinched, clearly so on edge that even this slight outburst was able to startle.

“Ron. Outside. _Now_.”

He burst into the hallway ahead of his friend, waiting until the workroom door was closed before nearly shouting, “Are you completely mental? What was that?!”

“If you won’t look--”

Without letting him finish, Harry continued, “Who in their right mind talks to a complete stranger like that? I don't like Slytherins either, but even I could have told you she wasn’t a bloody Death Eater, Ron! In fact, we _met_ most of them, and something tells me she wouldn’t exactly _fit in!_ ”

Ron seemed to have caught on to how angry he was, his expression shifting to one of worry. “Look, mate, I’m just being thorough--”

“I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to fucking _think_ for once and realize that this isn’t bloody helpful!”

“Oh, so now I’m stupid,” Ron spat with a glare. “I’m some kind of arsehole for wanting to protect my friend? Piss off, Harry!”

“Protect me from what?!” he shot back, irate. “Some girl with a baby? Really?”

“We spent all last year being hounded by Slytherins, and then we got to almost be murdered by their parents too!” Ron heaved in a breath. “I’m not going to let that happen again!”

Frustrated, he pressed his fingers over his eyes before sliding them away with a furious swipe. “I’m going to go back in, and you are going to keep your mouth shut or get lost. Got it?”

“Well, I’m not letting you stay there alone. Especially considering--” He cut himself off, mouth pressed into a straight line.

Harry leveled a stare at him. “Considering what?”

“Considering she’s… y’know…” He lowered his voice. “A _loose woman_.”

He closed his eyes against that statement, unable to deal with it. “Stop talking, Ron. Just stop.”

“I’m still coming with you,” he insisted.

“Whatever.”

Re-entering the room was a solemn affair. Croft answered the door when Harry knocked, but she barely looked at him, returning to her seat wordlessly. Ron took up the chair he’d left, backing it away from the table as Harry sat to continue his studying.

“Have you still got that pen?” he asked the girl, his voice feeling strange after yelling.

She pushed it toward him, eyes purposefully glued to her textbook. Muttering a thanks, his eyes went straight back to the recipe. The repetitive motions and the dry text before him, eventually, quieted his ire.

And Ron, to his credit, said nothing more.

Taking a nap before his meeting with Dumbledore had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then, slogging his way up the steps, Harry felt a good deal worse than he had beforehand. Not to mention the fact that he was a few minutes late, even after all that rushing around he’d done in the dorms, stuffing his Invisibility Cloak in his bag at the last possible second.

He’d been mentally preparing his apology for the last ten minutes when his thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance within the Headmaster’s office.

“... is not sustainable, Albus!” Snape’s angry voice emanated from the partially-open door. Harry’s steps slowed and he lurked nearby, unable to resist eavesdropping when the opportunity was lying right at his feet.

The Headmaster spoke in a low voice, each of his words precise. “You, above all, should understand the danger residing within your House. Those children are susceptible--”

“If these children are anything like _me_ , then the only thing they are _susceptible_ to is extreme reaction to this kind of treatment--”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Well, that is the idea, Severus. I won’t tolerate radical behavior in my school.”

“Define ‘radical’, because the children of Death Eaters are not the only ones you are attacking,” Snape retorted.

Were they… arguing? This simple fact helped to rouse Harry somewhat, and he shifted his weight, leaning just far enough to peer inside at the two men.

The Headmaster was sitting behind his desk, brow furrowed. “These aren’t attacks; they are precautionary measures. Slytherin has long been home to predatory individuals--”

“ _Individuals_ ; not the whole.” The professor shifted his weight, agitated. “If you take issue with a few, then punish _them!_  Expel them, if you have to. Alienating the rest is foolhardy in the extreme.”

“The goal is not to get rid of them, Severus,” Dumbledore stated calmly. “But they must understand what is and is not acceptable. The influence of indoctrinated children must be diminished, so that the rest may thrive.”

“They aren’t thriving,” Snape spat, disgusted. “And the more restrictions you place, the greater their will to break those chains will be.”

“They are Slytherins, and as such, they understand power,” the Headmaster said, adjusting his spectacles. “They will come to accept this situation; those most well-behaved will be duly rewarded and purists will be separated from the rest.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Snape’s accompanying gesture was jerky, carrying with it a mountain of frustration. “They are children. _Children_.”

“Children grow into adults, Severus.” The Headmaster’s tone was harsh with reprimand. “Adults who must understand the enemy they are up against, should they decide to follow the dark path. Hogwarts has too long allowed Slytherin House the freedom to nurture bigotry. I will endure it no further.”

“You cannot just _intimidate--_!”

“The matter is not up for discussion,” Dumbledore silenced him. “My decision is final.”

There was a moment of quiet. Snape straightened himself, hands placed carefully at his sides. Then, with an accompanying snort, he warned, “The consequences be on your head, then.”

Harry, sensing that nothing further would be said, gently knocked on the door frame. “Professor? Can I come in?”

Snape’s gaze snapped in his direction, and the Headmaster called for him to enter, voice leagues warmer than it had been a minute before. “Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore addressed him as he walked in. “How are you? Classes are going well, I presume?”

“Yeah,” Harry commented, eyes flicking in Snape’s direction of their own accord. “Fine.”

“Good to hear, good to hear… I trust Miss Granger is now fully mended?”

Oh, right. He hadn’t talked to Dumbledore since he’d tried to file a complaint against Snape. Frowning, Harry did his level best not to look at the man standing nearby. “She is, yeah.”

“I knew Madame Pomfrey was sure to take good care of her.”

Awkward, Harry replied with another “yeah”. Wasn’t much else he could say to that under present circumstances, was there?

“Well, I imagine you’ll be wanting to head out soon. Your first destination is a bit of a walk.”

That perked him up. “Really? Where is it?”

“Professor Snape will be taking you to… another safehouse, of sorts. It is located in Dartmoor but, by nature of its protections, Apparition is restricted to some distance away from the building itself.”

“Makes sense,” Harry remarked, thoughtful. “Dartmoor… Isn’t that pretty… remote?”

Dumbledore drew in breath to reply, but Snape was the one who spoke first. “I see your knowledge of geography is not entirely hopeless,” he sneered, the compliment as backhanded as they came. “But regardless, we are losing time with this inane chatter.”

While the Headmaster did not seem happy with Snape’s tone, he appeared to agree with the sentiment. “A word of advice, Harry,” Dumbledore broached, gesturing toward the fireplace as he spoke. “Choose your words carefully, when speaking to the caretaker of this safehouse.”

Perplexed, Harry asked, “Why?”

The older man brushed a hand through his beard. “She does not take kindly to strangers.”

Harry and Snape had been walking for roughly ten minutes before either of them said a word.

Even then, it was only so the professor could reprimand him. “What do you think you are doing?”

Having just taken out his wand, Harry cast an annoyed glance in Snape’s direction. “It’s the middle of the night in pitch dark marshland, and it’s _raining_ hard enough to soak me through. Can’t even see where I’m walking, much less what’s beyond a few meters ahead!”

“Need I explain to you _once again_ the laws against underage magic?”

“ _No_ , but if you’re not going to light the way, I’m at least going to defend myself against whatever’s out here.”

“‘Whatever is out here’?” Snape echoed, mocking. “I am simply fascinated that the Boy Who Lived is afraid of ponies, sheep, and fish.”

“Well!” he huffed. “Aunt Petunia was always on about ‘wild country’ having bears and wolverines…” _Not that she was really a reliable source_ , Harry thought, his voice petering out with that realization.

“Put your wand _away_ ,” came Snape’s severe demand. “You are more likely to encounter a Muggle than a wild animal, and in either case, magic is not advised.”

With a sigh, he did as he was told, though his apprehension persisted. There was silence between them for another fifteen minutes. Harry was wet and cold, but it was useless to complain about it. Snape wasn’t going to care; he would probably say something about how his discomfort was evidence that Harry was a rubbish Order member, and he should just give it up…

His feet sloshed on the muddy ground, treading over long grass and sodden heather. The landscape was lit only by the small sliver of moonlight that peeked out of the clouds at odd intervals. Whenever it did, Harry could make out that they were traversing a wide heath, swooping hills making the countryside appear like gentle waves in a sea of grass. Distantly, he could just barely spot a forest treeline, but he and Snape weren’t heading in that direction.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Harry inquired, “I don’t see any houses or buildings… Is it really that far off?”

The man did not look his way as he replied, “It is hidden.”

Oh. Of course. “Still, bit out-of-the-way for a safehouse.”

“It isn’t a true safehouse,” Snape told him.

Harry frowned. “How d’you mean?”

“Let’s just say, you’re ‘safer’ without than within.”

That wasn’t helpful at all, but Harry lapsed back into silence for a time. His foot sunk into a surprisingly deep puddle, causing him to stumble before righting himself.

Harry groused, “Any reason we’re slogging it in this downpour?”

The other man’s sneer was evident in his tone. “I seem to recall the Headmaster informing you about the Apparition wards, Potter.”

A scowl slashed across Harry’s face. “I know _that_ ; I meant who we’re supposed to be talking to, and why.”

“ _You_ will not be talking. It’s been made abundantly clear how abysmal conversations turn out whenever you open your mouth.”

He didn’t appreciate the slight, casting a glare at Snape as they crested another grassy knoll. “Going to ‘play nice’ again?” he questioned, derisive.

The man shot him a displeased look, but did not reply.

“Is this about the missing girl? Because I thought she lived in Cardiff.”

“No,” was his retort.

“No what? That this is about her, or that she lived in Cardiff?”

Snape’s expression was on all levels annoyed. “This _visit_ is to inquire about the wards surrounding your summer home,” he explained through gritted teeth.

“Oh, are there--?”

A quick, withering glare silenced him. “No more questions.”

Harry deflated, stare affixed to the slick toes of his boots. They traversed in quiet for several minutes, with nothing but the muffled impacts of raindrops on vegetation to accompany them. He should have felt peaceful, should have felt like this journey across the landscape was a respite. But, this was a sort of quiet that Harry was seldom exposed to, accustomed to both the Dursley’s loud lifestyle and the crowded bustle of Hogwarts. Even though on some level he could appreciate the sound of empty air, he experienced a companion sensation of bone-deep unease.

“I’ve never been somewhere like this,” he found himself saying.

The other man did not reply, though he did slant a look in his direction as a gust of wind blew past them, strong enough to momentarily stagger Harry.

“I mean, I’ve been to Dartmoor once, but that was just for the Quidditch World Cup. And, er… that… didn’t quite work out.”

Harry scratched the side of his face, recalling the image of the Dark Mark in the cloudy sky and debating the wisdom of talking about this with _Snape_ , of all people. “There’s country around Hogwarts, but it’s not really the same,” he changed the subject. “There’s still loads of buildings and people around. Plus, I’m never allowed to be on my own anyway, so… yeah.”

To his surprise, there came a response: “What a _tragic_ existence you must lead, to never be alone.”

This comment, though laced with ridicule, held a note of something else. Perhaps it was due to Harry’s inability to see the man’s expression, or the gentle wind howling past his ears, but Snape’s pronouncement seemed almost... bitter.

He scowled. “Yeah, I _get_ it. ‘The poor Boy Who Lived complains about being surrounded by people who love him’, is that it? Well, that’s not even what I’m talking about, so _stuff_ it, for once.”

“We are here.”

Startled, Harry grounded to a halt. In front of them was a monument of some sort; there were many stone slabs jutting up from the ground, all arranged in two wide circles side-by-side. The stones were spaced far apart, some missing from the circumference of the circle they were a part of, standing like sentries in the untamed grass.

“What is this place?”

Snape turned toward him, his drenched hair sliding heavily across his shoulder. “The Grey Wethers. A tourist landmark for Muggles.”

Using his wand, Snape, strangely, cast a wordless Four Points spell. The wand spun towards North in his hand before he addressed Harry once more. “With luck, you’ll never come back to this place again, but if you ever do…”

His eye contact was piercing. “ _Never_ enter the north circle.”

Glancing between the man’s wand and the circle in question, Harry replied with a small, “Right.”

“Casting verbal spells within ten kilometers is equally foolhardy, but the consequences won’t nearly be so immediate in that case.”

“Er… okay.”

Snape headed toward the southern circle, and Harry followed, eyes straining around to survey any dangers that might be lurking. When they crossed over inside the circle itself, he spotted something strange. At the very center, where they were headed, there seemed to be nothing but air. However, Harry could just barely observe a strange phenomenon; the grass surrounding seemed to shimmer before his eyes, shift sideways just a titch.

“Is… Is the building disillusioned?”

Snape glanced over his shoulder to level Harry with a look of scrutiny. “No.”

“Oh. Well, I just thought, since the grass was kind of… off.”

The man paused before saying, “The entrance is disillusioned, but the house itself is not.”

Harry nodded, watching the ground as they drew closer to the center. A pile of rocks slithered into view, mirage-like. Wait, not a pile of rocks; it was a small rectangle of irregular stone, like a rustic welcome mat. Beside that was a single door, standing upright and solitary in the long grass, seeming to lead nowhere.

Intrigued but wary, he looked to Snape for further instruction. The man said nothing, but approached himself, opening a small metal box which was affixed to the wood of the door. Craning his neck, Harry watched as Snape pulled a rubber stamp from the box.

Then, without warning, the professor used his wand to create a wide gash across his palm. Harry frowned, watching as blood welled up from the cut. Snape, for his part, barely reacted, except to dip the stamp into his hand before marking the door with a blood-filled symbol.

The image vanished before Harry could get a proper look at it, but, in response, the door opened inward. Snape prompted him to approach and, despite how disturbing the last minute had been, Harry obeyed. Wasn’t like he could refuse, anyway.

The door, he came to realize upon entering, contained an astonishing amount of wizardspace. The room they walked into was not large, but the house appeared to be roughly the size of a smallish cottage, despite there only being a door frame on the outside. His first impression was a strong smell of herbs and mold, powerful enough to cause Harry’s eyes to water. Before them was a derelict living room, decorated with mismatched, worn furniture and cobwebs. There was no fireplace, but there did appear to be a handful of disembodied lights that floated around the space, too dim to pierce the gloom, and a pit filled with blackened wood, over which a large, empty cauldron sat. Where Harry presumed a kitchen would normally be, there was instead a vast array of counters and cabinets, arranged messily together. An absurd amount of dirty glass jars was on every available surface, filled with various plant matter, animal parts, glowing liquids, and other oddities. The tools atop the counter looked like they were meant to be used for potions, but they were hand-hewn from stone and wood, primitive.

The room was dark, except for a single lit candle atop a nearby table, and it was by that light that Harry saw their host emerge from another room to greet them.

He noticed first that the woman was attired in all black, the lace fringes of her dress torn and frayed, and she had long, thin fingers which ended in jagged, soot-stained nails. His second realization was that she was… _pretty_. Her face, youthful and ghostly pale, was hitched up into a calculating smirk, eyes lined darkly, as if she had shrouded them in smoke.

Though there was an aura of disarray about the woman and her dwelling, there was an equally powerful sense of vigor and fearlessness to her attitude, as if they had wandered, unwittingly, into the territory of a cloistered beast.

And when she spoke, it was with a voice deep, clear, and emphatic. “So nice of you to drop in, Severus.” Her gaze turned presently to Harry. “But you know I don’t allow strays.”

“Then I suppose it is _fortunate_ that everyone here is spoken for,” he retorted, dry.

“You people always are,” the woman sneered, dirty teeth peeking through her lips.

Snape was unsympathetic. “We are here on Dumbledore’s orders.”

She rolled her eyes, the motion further exaggerated as it continued down her neck and across her shoulders. “ _Ob_ -viously.”

Turning toward her collection of jars, she beckoned a cloudy glass vial to her hand with only a hooked finger, plucking it out of the air with practiced accuracy. Then, her hooded gaze fell in their direction once more.

Holding herself regally, she held up the vial. “Pay the price, Severus,” was her prompt as her long nails clinked the glass.

Harry, confused, cast a look in the professor’s direction, but he was already moving. Striding purposefully, Snape produced a small vial of his own from his robes, placing it on the table beside them with a clack of finality. Within, Harry could spot a thick, deep red liquid. Like… blood. He grimaced, feeling as if he’d seen too much of it tonight already.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you can swindle me. You know I need it _fresh_.”

“I think you will find it is preserved to your liking,” Snape countered, unrelenting. When the woman remained displeased, he raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance. “Did you think to collect mine?” With a light scoff, his voice hardened. “I hardly think this small favor is worth that much.”

With a disdainful sniff, she snatched Snape’s vial from the tabletop. “Perhaps you should ask for less _boring_ favors, then.”

“And allow you the satisfaction? I think not.”

Harry, unable to keep quiet any longer, inserted his words between them, “What is going _on?_ ”

Snape shot him a warning look. Oh, right. No talking. With a grimace, he clammed up once more, but it was too late; their host seemed quite pleased at this outburst. In a flash, her eyes were raking and turning him over, exploratory. Then, a moment later, she glanced to Snape again, her head jerking toward him in a fashion so jilted and fierce that it reminded him of Bellatrix. His stomach churned, unsettled, as a spike of panic sang through his muscles.

“And _him?_ ”

“Forget him.”

“Severus, you can’t seriously believe you can trounce such a _healthy_ and _youthful_ specimen in front of me and not expect me to notice?”

“Your powers of observation notwithstanding, he’s not a commodity you can afford.”

Her finger flicked hard, the vial in her hands sputtering outward and clamoring to the ground with a delicate _crash_ as it broke into pieces. The woman remained in the same position, eyes locked on Snape, a challenge. “The price just went up,” she announced, blasé, her hand perching itself just under her breast.

Snape’s gaze narrowed. “You are in no position to negotiate.”

She was unfazed by his threat, a wiry eyebrow lifting as she leaned back against a counter. “Aren’t I?”

In the space of a blink, the scene before Harry was entirely changed. Where Snape had been lingering near the door, he had progressed to directly beside the woman, wand brandished and posture tense. For her part, where her stance had been languid, attitude haughty, it had morphed into watchful amusement.

A shrill, tinkling sound pierced through the air, emanating from a dark corner of the sitting room. His gaze darting there on instinct, Harry felt the hair of his arms stand on end as he spotted the outline of an enormous, shadowed beast, its two milky white eyes fixed on the encounter. The creature lifted itself up, revealing its houndlike form, but when its muzzle opened in a menacing contortion, he saw that its mouth was filled with layers of razor-like teeth. Its wiry black fur was like a cloak of darkness, obscuring the line between the creature and the gloom. The room was small enough that Harry could feel the creature’s hot breath, could see the way its throat contracted as another sound, like the toll of a bell, rang from it more clearly than the first.

If he had once been frightened by the visage of his godfather’s animal form, it was nothing compared to this. He’d been exposed to many depictions of what Trelawney had called _The Grim_ , but this creature surpassed even those horror-filled images.

The woman’s voice lanced the air with a hollow _tsk_ -ing sound. “In my own _home_ , Severus?” she mocked, feigning disappointment.

“Is this truly the hill you wish to die on?” Snape countered, unflinching. “Honor your agreement, _witch_ , or we are done here.”

“You are welcome to leave,” the woman murmured, silky and unperturbed. “And I can sell this information to a more _considerate_ buyer--”

“So be it,” he announced, turning abruptly on his heel to head toward the door.

Harry tensed, looking between the two of them. He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk, but… didn’t they need that information? The Dursleys may be awful, but he didn’t exactly want them _dead_ just because Harry was who he was; if some Death Eaters had gone and tampered with the house, the Order ought to know about it, shouldn’t they?

“I will pay the price,” he said before he’d even made the conscious decision to, meeting the woman’s eyes. Snape’s form froze beside him, but Harry kept his solemn focus.

“Will you?” the woman purred, taking a small stride toward him. “What a good boy.”

Abruptly, the professor grabbed hold of his forearm, his grip crushing. “You will do no such thing.”

On instinct, Harry flinched away, squirming out of the man’s reach. “You’re the one always on about how useless I am!” he accused. “I’m not _stupid_ ; it’s just a little blood!”

“You have no idea--”

“What does it matter?” Harry glared at him. “Everyone wants a piece of me. Pretty well used to it by now.”

In fact, thinking about it, this was probably what Dumbledore had intended anyway. After all, there was never going to be a scenario where Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived walked into a witch’s den anonymously, leaving just as auspiciously as he came. His name, his scar, his blood… It was always by this currency that he lived. And, most likely, it was by that currency that he would die.

He stepped forward, rolling up his damp sleeve. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

The way she gripped him was ravenous, her touch rough, finger pads smoothing over his forearm. She didn’t look up at Snape when she addressed him once more. “Severus. Out.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I only meet with customers,” she asserted, smooth.

“Your deal was with Dumbledore, not the boy,” Snape argued, a hard edge to his tone.

“And if Albus Dumbledore wishes to complete the transaction himself, he is free to,” she informed him.

“Those were not the--”

“Must I repeat myself?” the woman asked, a wistful sigh escaping her. “As you can see, I am with a patron now, Severus.” Her head tilted, a calculated gleam glimmering in her eye. “And you know my rule about strays.”

Following this was an eerie silence. When Harry looked at the man, he was standing very still, wet hair dripping on his shoulders. There was a strange aura to his lack of movement, as if the air were charged with some wild _intent_ ; contained, but only just.

Just then, her voice drifted over Harry’s head, landing just a few feet behind him: “ _Liebchen,_ ” Harry watched as her head jerked in Snape’s direction. “ _Pass auf_.”

The great beast stalked forward, heaving a rattling breath, its gaze pinpointed on Snape, threatening.

“Five minutes.” Those two words were expelled from the professor with such acute malice that Harry felt an urge to shrink away. “Five minutes, else I feed your _corpse_ to that pet of yours.”

She didn’t appear one whit intimidated. Her hand lifted to wave at him, dismissive, shooing him out of the house. The creature’s mouth unhinged again, the sound of bells frothing out, still encroaching on the professor’s space as the woman began to roughly pull Harry closer to the counter.

It was only when Harry heard the woosh of a door close behind him that she decided to speak again. “ _Much_ better. Now, hold still--”

Holding out a hand, Harry watched as a cloud of black smoke crashed against her ragged fingers and a wand emerged from the dissipated mist. It was a gnarled branch, grey and craggy, twisting out from the end of her arm as if it was a natural part of her form. He looked on with trepidation as she brought it close to his skin.

A surge of fear seeping into his veins, Harry interrupted her. “Before you do this--” His voice was stilted, but clear. “Tell me your name.”

She rose an eyebrow at him. “Lovelle.”

He huffed, eyeing her critically. “Seriously? That’s it?”

“Would you prefer a bit of flair?” she derided him. “They call me the Mire Enchantress. The Moor Witch. Mother of Mist. Name whispered on every leaf, every breeze, every creeping thing that writhes in the mud -- _blah, blah_.”

He shrugged with a sideways glance. “Your type always seems to like being _dramatic_.”

“My type,” she repeated, slightly intrigued. “And tell me, little stray. What do you think _my type_ is?”

“The type who wants to see me bleed,” Harry countered, looking at her dead on.

A high pitched chuckle rumbled in the back of her throat. “Clever. I like you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, however in a second she swiped the tip of her wand in a sharp slant against the inside of his elbow, catching him off guard. The pain was nominal -- he’d had worse before -- but the blood rushed from his arm in thick rivulets, dripping into a clay basin beneath.

It felt strange, to watch and let it happen. There was a certain way about it that allowed him some detachment, perhaps because he had instigated this himself, given his blessing. There was a certain power to it, even if it was unpleasant. In a way, it was reminiscent of that day in class… Croft patching up the over-deep wound he’d carved in his own arm, spouting knowledge regarding things that he barely understood. What had she called it? The brachial artery? Maybe that was why he was bleeding so incredibly fast.

Even so, there was none of the practiced care Croft possessed in his current circumstance; Lovelle held his arm in a vice-like grip, as if she were ready to squeeze every last drop out of him. He lifted his eyes back to the woman, seeing the veritable _hunger_ in her expression. “Alright, you got what you wanted. Now tell me what you know.”

“Down to business,” Lovelle complimented, straightening herself. “You comport yourself very well, little stray. Like another stray I used to know.”

“Here’s hoping that whoever they are, you didn’t bleed _them_ dry too.”

She chuckled again. “Remus was about as agreeable as you,” she commented, dry, as she turned his elbow upward to stem the flow of blood.

His mind stuttered to a halt, the shock radiating to the tips of his fingers. “Remus _Lupin?_  You know him?”

“Of course,” she answered, sticking the tip of her wand in between his squeezed muscles. A muted word passed between her lips and he could feel the wound righting itself, before she withdrew the wand, the bark of it stained with his blood. “I know just about everyone in that little flock of yours.”

“Of _course_ you do,” Harry echoed, not really happy about it.

The woman bent toward him to collect the clay bowl. “You can tell Severus that the anchors are _indeed_ attached to the residents of the home, as he believed,” she hoisted the bowl onto the counter with great care. “However, things begin to get a bit tricky after that. There is no foundation, not that I could find. And the ward was cast wandlessly, so finding the source will be difficult to impossible.”

His brow furrowed in thought. “So, a dead end,” he surmised, frowning.

“Yes and no,” she answered, turning toward him slightly. “You can also tell him that the parameters of the ward were very strict. The residents of the home were not allowed to touch the person whom the ward protected, and the ward also caused the residents to forget the protected person whenever they were not in sight.”

Harry listened to the whole of her pronouncement, a strange, undefinable feeling welling up in his chest. Afraid to ask, he prompted, “Who is the protected person?”

With a silent flourish of her wand, she began to siphon his blood into several vials, which lined themselves up on the tabletop. “You, presumably,” she stated, blithe. “It is your home, is it not?”

 _Great_ , even this woman he’d never met knew where he was during summers! He had to think it absurd for Dumbledore to be so intent on secrecy, while he was practically giving out Harry’s address!

“Do you know how long the ward has been there?” he asked, mostly to deflect.

“Only this past summer,” she informed, droll. “I must say, it _was_ a rather simple job. I was surprised your lot contacted me over something an entry level _Auror_ could easily accomplish.”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she finished sealing off the last of the vials, using her wand to direct their movement as they seated themselves primly on a nearby shelf. “But I suppose little could be done, considering.”

This, of everything she’d said, was most perplexing. Harry knew there were _actual_ Aurors in the Order, which meant that she was either exaggerating, or something more was afoot. It pricked at his curiosity, prompting him to ask, “Considering what?”

“Well, there wasn’t much of a choice once Remus decided to up and disappear and abandon the only job he was good for, was there?”

Harry sucked in a breath. “What--?!”

She clicked her tongue, glancing toward the door. “Time’s up,” she announced, waving a hand. Harry felt an invisible force wrap around his middle and, like a relentless gust of wind, propel him backwards toward the door, which swung open against the wall behind him with a bang directly before he was thrown to the murky ground.

Rain pelted his face as he rushed to stand, and he caught the barest glimpse of Lovelle, surveying her prize to the sound of a ringing bell, before the heavy door slammed closed in his face.

“Hey--!” Harry pounded his fist into the door, though it had little impact. “You can’t just say that and kick me out!”

“Potter?” Snape was standing nearby with arms crossed, wand gripped in one hand beneath his elbow. His robes were soaked, hair in scraggly clumps, and his face was as inscrutable as ever. _Well, he certainly looks the part of a drowned rat_ , Harry mused. Though it was just as likely he looked no different, it was hard to care in the face of this fresh wound.

“I don’t care what Dumbledore told you to say, you tell me right now--!” Harry demanded, walking right up to the man. “Is Remus missing?”

Snape stared at him, unmoving. Then, the moment he drew breath, Harry warned, “ _Don’t_ lie. I need to know.”

“You don’t need to know anything,” the man retorted, his eyebrows drawing lower in anger.

“He’s my--” Teacher? Mentor? An old friend of his father’s? What exactly was he? Harry shook his head, clearing those thoughts away. “He’s my friend. If something happened to him, I want to know about it.”

Snape regarded him with displeasure before his eyes slid away, dragging across the countryside. “Tell you what, Potter,” he remarked, conversational. “You give me the information you received from Lovelle, and I’ll consider providing what you want.”

“You’ll _consider_ it?” Harry spat, disgusted. “Nice try, but no.”

The professor snorted, pocketing his wand. “Suit yourself.”

With that, he began walking back the way they came. Harry, irritated, gave the door beside him one last kick before following after, shoving his hands in his pockets.

It was raining even harder, then, like the previous drizzle had only been a warmup. Harry had to repeatedly wipe his glasses with a damp sleeve to keep the back of Snape in sight. Still, he at least knew the distance they had to travel, having walked it once already. It would only have to be endured for some twenty minutes.

He trudged along in sullen silence, staring at Snape’s boots. It wasn’t like he’d been considering withholding information that the Order so obviously needed, but now that the man had made it a point of contention, Harry wanted nothing more than to keep it all to himself just to spite him. “Tit for tat” his Uncle Vernon would say. Though, perhaps following _any_ philosophy that a man like Vernon favored was, in and of itself, a bad idea.

Yet, how could he help it? His heart and mind were still racing, not only from his crushing worry for Remus, but from all the rest of it-- watching his own blood drain out of him, fighting with Ron, navigating the awkward situation with Croft, witnessing Malfoy’s increasingly violent attitude, his spat with the missing girl’s parents, the endless antagonism from Snape that he was enduring on a near constant basis… not to mention, the ominously specific wards on Privet Drive. His brain felt filled to the brim, close to bursting. Yet here was Snape, petty as ever, refusing to so much as utter a simple confirmation about whether Remus was around or not!

The further he walked though, the more he realized that Snape wasn’t the real problem; Dumbledore was. It wasn’t Snape who had started the year by proclaiming there would be no more lies, no more secrets between them. It wasn’t Snape who had made promises that weren’t kept, or professed his care and concern while his actions said the opposite. Despite there being no verifying word said on the matter, Harry knew that Remus must truly be missing; the fact that the professor refused to speak was confirmation enough. And, contemptible as the man was, it wasn’t Snape who had kept this from him, it was Dumbledore.

That, more than anything, set his blood boiling.

When Snape finally stopped in the midst of what seemed like just another grassy hill, one of many that they had passed on the way, he wordlessly grabbed hold of the man’s arm. A dense wind swept them away from that place, and Harry was glad to leave it behind.

They arrived in the same Cardiff alleyway they'd left from last time.

The nausea roiled through Harry, and he swallowed a few times, tamping it down as best he could. He’d expected Snape to have already been halfway down the sidewalk, but he was simply standing in the same spot, attention poised at the mouth of the alley, except now he was completely dry, his hair looking sort of strange and woolly.

Harry's was the opening remark. “We’re not going back to Hogwarts?”

“Apparently not,” the man jeered.

“Why? Aren’t we supposed to report to Dumbledore?”

“Only the first of two errands have been completed,” Snape informed him crisply. “There remains an ongoing investigation, despite your best efforts to sabotage it.”

Harry glared at him. “Fine. Guess you want me to patch up things with the parents, then, even though I don’t even remember what my fake name is supposed to be.”

“It’s Barrett,” the man replied instantly, tone disdainful. “But you aren't going to need it.”

He paused. “Why?”

Snape turned to face him more fully. “The Headmaster indicated that you have a propensity for trespassing where you are not wanted.”

Harry's expression took an odd turn at that pronouncement, the mention of Dumbledore flaring his anger. “Excuse me?”

“Your task is to investigate the missing girl's room in secret, and report your findings to me.”

“In… secret?” He frowned, that phrase not sitting right with him. “Why can't you just ask to see it?”

“After your indiscretion, it will require a disproportionate amount of grovelling to regain the Ayers' goodwill,” Snape remarked flatly. “We do not have the luxury of wasting that time. And if they become disenchanted with our efforts, they could involve Muggle authorities, which will not only restrict access to the house, but magical evidence could be thoughtlessly erased.”

Well, _sure_ , that all made sense, but… “You want me to break into their house,” he muttered, uncomfortable. “After what I did before, you now want me to do something even _worse?_ ”

“It is not about ‘worse’ or ‘better’,” came the older man’s annoyed reply. “It is about succeeding, by whatever means necessary.”

“I don't like that,” Harry stated.

“If you do not _like_ it,” the man pressed, scornful, “then you have no business being in this organization at all.”

Frustrated, Harry snapped, “I didn't say I wouldn't do it!” He couldn't frame his thoughts, but there was something about the way Snape had said it that chafed. “Just-- Let’s just get on with it.”

Snape stared him down for a moment before saying, “You will draw attention in your current state.”

Harry looked down at himself, surveying his water-laden clothes, the mud smattered on his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. With a grimace, he held out his arms at his sides. “Well? I said get on with it, didn’t I?”

The professor didn’t seem keen on his tone, but he did murmur a drying charm which vanished every ounce of moisture from Harry’s person. He blinked several times in succession, the charm so thorough that his eyes now felt pretty dried out. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to tame it to some semblance of neat, to little avail. When he looked up, Snape was staring at him.

“Anything else?”

The man looked away. “I trust you have that Invisibility Cloak of yours.”

Of all the things that had happened that day, learning that Severus Snape knew about his cloak was the least important revelation he’d received of late, but it still managed to make an impact anyway. “Er…” He hesitated, despite it being a pointless gesture. “... Yes.”

“And I imagine it goes without saying, what you will be using it for.”

He wasn’t an idiot. “Yeah,” was all he said, rolling his eyes.

“Very well,” Snape commented, raising his hands to his unruly hair to pull it back, as he had during their last visit. “Let anyone see you, and I will assign you a month of detention for each witness.”

Throwing him an odd look, Harry said, “What? How is that supposed to work?”

“If I have to suffer through the painstaking process of Obliviation, then _you_ will be granted the privilege of suffering in equal measure.”

Harry fell into step beside the man as he began walking, the route once again familiar. There were a few minutes of quiet in which it struck him that he preferred the noise of a quiet street, with the occasional passing car or blaring telly, to the howling nothingness of Dartmoor. The bright rings of light from the streetlamps passed by at regular intervals, keeping pace with them. It was a soothing rhythm, coupled with the subtle sounds of life around him. At some indeterminate point, Harry realized that he was feeling a great deal less pressurized.

And, with that, his pettiness seemed to have dissipated as well. “So. Lovelle said she doesn’t know who set the ward, and it has no foundation, whatever that means.”

Snape cast a glance in his direction. “It is a simple matter to trace the magic to its wielder, with access to the information she has,” he replied, irked, though it seemed not to be directed at Harry himself for once.

He shrugged. “She said whoever it was, they didn’t use a wand.”

The professor’s eyes narrowed at the road ahead of them. “Go on.”

“Well,” Harry ventured, “that’s pretty much all she had to say about that. But she did mention, er, what exactly the ward did.”

An eyebrow was lifted in his direction, and this time he was on the receiving end of that annoyance from earlier. “And?”

“She said… the ward was attached to the people in the house. That its… rules, I guess, were very strict, meant to uh… protect someone.” He frowned, his tone shifting toward trepidation. “And that it prevented the Dursleys from touching that… person, made them forget them whenever they weren’t around.”

When Snape said nothing, Harry took in a breath, hoping to draw in strength as well. “And she said that, er, ‘protected person’ was probably me.”

There was continued silence, causing Harry to look up at the older man. He was looking straight ahead, gaze reaching far away, mouth set in a frown, gait uninterrupted, but Harry couldn’t place any of those observations together to form a cohesive whole.

“I mean, in that case it’s probably not a big deal, right?” he asked, more to fill the air than anything. “It doesn’t really do anything bad.”

This prompted a sharp look from Snape. “How would allowing the people charged with your protection to forget you exist constitute as ‘not bad’?”

It was Harry’s turn to fall quiet. What could he say, really? Any justification he could come up with would just cause the man to accuse him of being selfish and ungrateful, and he’d just plain rather not hear it.

Quite suddenly, he was struck by a strange feeling. Lightheaded, Harry was thrown off-kilter, wobbling under what felt like a Jelly-Legs Jinx. He stopped walking when he stumbled into the professor's side, drawing the man's attention in spectacular fashion.

“Potter?” he questioned, irritated, before his voice changed to something more stern. “Potter. How much blood did you lose?”

Huh. Come to think of it, it had probably been… “A lot. I think?”

Snape grabbed hold of his arm, pulling up his sleeve. The touch was firm, purposeful. Harry was too woozy to object. “Where?” the professor prompted.

Rather than showing him, Harry parroted back his earlier thoughts, “Brachial artery.”

Evidently, he needed no further explanation. “Of course it was,” was his dry comment.

His hands left Harry's arm as he rummaged for… something. It was weirdly hard to focus. He kind of just wanted to lay down.

Then, quick as it came, the feeling left him. He still didn't feel _great_ , but he regained some small semblance of vigor. So, when Snape presented a little, bright-red vial for Harry to  take, he refused.

“I'll be fine,” he said, pulling in a deep breath. “Don't need it.”

“ _Drink it_ , you imbecile,” the older man insisted, dangling it directly in Harry's line of vision.

With a sigh, he grabbed it, eyeing the contents. “What--?”

“Blood Replenishing Potion,” Snape cut him off, impatient. “The last thing I want to do this evening is Apparate your unconscious body back to Hogwarts.”

With a grimace, he did as he was told, shivering at the odd taste of copper. Then, he mentioned, “I really do feel fine.”

“ _Oh_ , what a relief that you feel _fine_ ,” came Snape’s acerbic retort. “I ordered you not to speak to her.”

He frowned. “Well, we needed to know about the wards…”

“The information did not warrant a pint of blood,” the older man pointed out.

“You were just going to leave without--!”

“The situation was well in hand before your absurd attempt at a ‘noble sacrifice’,” was the sneered reply. “It was foolish to set a precedent for _desperation_ in front of a woman like her.”

“Like her?” Harry questioned, eyes narrowed.

“A cunning opportunist,” Snape elucidated, snide. “The natural enemy to Gryffindors, it would seem.”

He pulled a face, though another thought occurred to him, then. “Bit weird that I walked all that way without feeling anything.”

“Adrenaline has the capacity to keep you standing,” the professor filled him in. “But it should come as no surprise that the body requires blood to function properly.”

Harry shrugged, the potion kicking in and making his face feel hot. As they continued walking, he thought to ask, “You just keep blood restorative on you all the time?”

The answer drifted to him, quiet. “Yes.”

He'd half-formulated a follow up question when Snape spoke again, “You will need to enter the house on the east-facing side. The girl's room is on the ground floor, behind the garage. Be certain you are not seen, especially not by any _concerned citizens_.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, focusing on the task at hand. “What are you going to do?”

“Have a _visit_ with the Ayers,” came Snape’s prompt reply before he stopped at the mouth of a dirt path, gesturing toward it. “Third house on the left.”

He glanced down the way with suspicion. “You sure have this all planned out.”

The man’s expression tightened. “Yes, that is precisely my job,” he commented, bland. “Now take this, and do yours.”

Snape held out a thin, yellow-brown strip of wood, into which were carved various runes. A wand-- small, unassuming. Not nearly as refined and cared-for as the one Harry had kept by his side for five years. Looking at Snape with a question in his eyes, he reluctantly took hold of it.

“Do _not_ use your own wand.”

The man’s strict instruction followed him down the path as he donned his Invisibility Cloak and made his way toward the house. It was strange, to be engaging in such… _endorsed_ subterfuge. Even stranger was the fact that the directive had come from Snape, the person he and his friends had most desperately needed to avoid during their nightly excursions. This time, though, the stakes were much higher; getting caught wouldn’t just land him in detention. It could expose the Order, put his face in the Daily Prophet once more, and jeopardize a girl’s life.

When put in that perspective, Harry began to feel very nervous. His grip on the little strip of a wand tightened as he approached the tall wooden fence near the back end of the house. Considering what Dumbledore had told him, the Ministry knowing exactly where and when he had used magic, it seemed like a trick: Snape giving him another wand. Was it a test? And if so, for what purpose? Did he still want to see Harry expelled? Probably. But then, with seeing that act the man put on for the family, all his talk of doing whatever it takes to succeed, to _win_ … Getting Harry arrested didn’t seem quite in line with that thinking.

Traversing the back perimeter, he began to suspect that Snape had merely had the foresight to divine this simple fact: Harry could not succeed without it. There was no gap in the wooden slats, no gate, nothing to hold onto for climbing. In essence, no way to get in by regular means.

Even though he knew what he had to do, his resolve was still shaky. An image of the full Wizengamot flashed before his eyes, the cut of their robes imposing as they bombarded him with questions. He’d be hard pressed to explain _this_ away.

Blowing out a breath, he pressed the wand’s tip against one of the wood slats of the fence, a hushed  _Diminuendo_ rushing under his breath. The wood shrank in size until it was only the length of a matchstick, allowing Harry enough space to squeeze through, but it also made a loud noise when the nails holding it together gouged a deep scratch in. Harry’s gaze darted about, ears trained for any disturbance, eyes seeking for anyone who may have been alerted, but there was nothing.

He crouched down, ducking underneath the horizontal slab of wood, careful not to catch his cloak on the nail, before he restored the wood panel to its full size. There was considerable damage done to it due to the nail, but it was the best he could do under present circumstances. Grimacing, he made his way toward the building itself, keeping himself in a crouch.

Through a window to his left, he spotted a person and froze on instinct. Lit with orange light, Charlie Ayers was squinting into the gloom, speaking to whoever was behind him before he moved away. Harry blew out a breath, his tense muscles unraveling enough for him to continue.

Violet’s room was easy to find. Not only was it beside the garage, as Snape had said, but it was the only window with a bright, patterned curtain. An attempt to pull it open revealed that the lock was latched shut, but a handy _Alohamora_ fixed that. Sighing, he figured that if the Wizarding authorities hadn’t descended on him yet, they weren’t going to. There was something very… _freeing_ about that.

Harry slid open the window slowly, doing his level best not to make a sound. The window let out a soft shriek as it struggled on its track, but it was, fortunately, nothing too noticeable. Climbing down to the room itself, however, was bound to be a tricky affair. Below the window was a large space heater, which he’d rather not topple if he could help it.  

He was busy contemplating how to make his way down without his Invisibility Cloak sliding off when he had a realization that made him want to smack himself. Gripping the borrowed wand in his hand, his eyes locked on the sight of the room before him and, with a soft _pop_ , he Apparated directly into the center of the carpeted floor.

Now that he was in, the task before him seemed both easier and harder. On the one hand, he didn’t have to stoop over beneath his cloak any longer, letting it slide to the floor with a grateful sigh. On the other, the sound of his every movement was likely to draw attention. Standing in place, Harry contemplated what to do next. Silencing charm, probably? He wasn’t especially good at those, nor did he know how to place them on anything other than a person.

 _Best not, then_ , he figured, frowning. But, if he was going to be sneaking about, he’d need a bit of light. A hushed _Lumos_ lit up the environs, and Harry kept a hand cupped over the beam as he surveyed the room.

The first thing he noticed was a large bed, the frame inlaid with metal curls. The sheet was white and pristine, draped neatly atop the mattress. In fact, everything about the room was neat: the chest of drawers nearby had nothing on it except for two framed photos and a stuffed black cat, the small desk was devoid of a chair and had nothing atop it but an adjustable lamp and a mostly empty pencil holder, and the closet was devoid of clutter, holding a modest amount of hanging clothing with shoes lined up in organized rows below. Harry had never seen a room so clean and well put together.

The sole indicator that someone lived there was the sheer amount of focused decor. Pictures lined every wall, their presentation just as neat as the rest of the room, but they all seemed to be related to some Muggle production called ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’, if the repeated phrase and featured characters were anything to go by. Harry approached one wall to survey them more closely, peering curiously at the image of a woman, a man in a bowler hat, and three children flying across a colorful landscape on a metal bed that looked identical to the one in the room. One of the official-looking posters was signed with black marker and bearing the note, “To Violet - Keep the magic alive!” signed with a name he didn’t recognize in flowing script. In addition, on the wall was a large schedule annotated daily up until when the girl had gone missing, a mounted broomstick (though not of any make Harry had ever seen while perusing Quidditch supplies), and a vast array of hand-drawn art.

Harry didn’t consider himself artistically minded, by any means, but the drawings seemed, to him, very impressive. In one, a woman and man appeared to be dancing on the ocean floor, surrounded by fish in fancy dress; in another, a man was refereeing footie for cartoon animals; and there was also depicted a clearing where several suits of armor stood in battle formation against the night sky. They were all signed _Violet A._ in cursive.

He turned away from the wall, eyes scanning around for anything he missed. Above the girl’s bed was a banner which read, _Treguna Mekoides Trecorum Satis Dee_ and, on her bedside table, a line of miniature armors were placed atop her digital alarm clock. At the foot of the bed was a cushy little settee for a pet of some kind, and a dark grey knapsack lay beside it, decorated with the silhouette of a woman sitting on a broomstick and holding a sword, a small union jack fluttering behind her.

Harry frowned at the strange sight, casting his eyes about listlessly. There was a lot to see, but there was a distinct separation between witnessing elements of this girl’s life and putting them together in a coherent way. His nerves returned as he drifted around the room. He was meant to be finding evidence, figuring out where she might have disappeared to, but that was easier said than done, wasn’t it? Harry wasn’t even certain what he was looking for; Dumbledore may have recommended him for sneaking about, but it was normally Hermione who fronted the research bits of their trouble-making.

Still, he was here. So he ought to do something, rather than remain fixed to the center of the carpet. It felt odd to be rummaging in a girl’s things, but Harry first inspected the chest of drawers. On top were the framed pictures; one was a family photo, Mr. and Mrs. Ayers along with three children, two boys and one girl. Except, Harry vaguely remembered the dad mentioning that Violet had a sister… Perplexed, he surveyed the second photograph, and what he found startled him.

He recognized her. She was exactly his age, of course, but he hadn’t really expected… had never really _considered_ what that meant. She’d gone to Hogwarts the same as he had, and he’d seen her around meals, hallways, club meetings, Quidditch games. She was a year ahead, and a Ravenclaw, but she was immediately recognizable to him. Otherwise a fairly normal, round-faced girl, she had shoulder-length black hair, but the under-layer was colored bright blue, a trait which immediately set her apart.

Stunned, he gripped the picture frame tightly. This was the girl. This was _Violet_. A teenager and a student, like him. Someone he knew. And this girl could be tortured or dead. Every moment he wasted standing there was a moment she was suffering, wherever she was.

His hands shook as he placed the photo back in its place. The quicker he got this job done, the less time she had to wait for the Order to find her.

Blowing out a stilted puff of air, he moved on to the desk. There was only one drawer, long and thin just below the tabletop. There were more bits and bobs in there: a set of colored pencils, a manual sharpener, stationary, a notebook… He picked it up, opening to the front page, where there were several loose sheets of paper. _Potions Notes_ , the first read at the top. Below was listed a bunch of second year material and a few doodles, including one of a tiny Snape with pointed teeth, yelling. Violet had written below, _He’s marked me off for re-sorting the ingredients again!!_ Beside that, she’d drawn a small angry version of herself. _Tell Maggie to give me back the quill I gave her._

Flipping through, all he found were notes and doodles, all penned in her hand. The longer he looked at it, the more tense and restless he felt. Harry placed it back in the drawer.

The closet didn’t yield much aside from clothing, but it was at that point that Harry realized that he was going about this incorrectly. Instead of aimlessly walking about, he should have checked for anything concealed by magic first. Grimacing, he pulled out the borrowed wand, drawing in the air a broad, twisting swirl and whispering, “ _Revelio!_ ”

Two objects in the room glowed very briefly before the magic finished its work. One of the lights had come from the knapsack beside the bed, and the other had shone from inside the desk drawer.

The bag was closer, and he opened the flap to peruse the contents. Evidently, she possessed a wizardspace bag, since at first glance Harry spotted an entire bookshelf within. They were all magical books, many of them required texts for classes, all arranged alphabetically and by subject. Beside that was a rolling desk chair -- likely the one that was missing from the desk itself -- and a wooden easel, atop which sat…

Harry stooped down and pushed his body into the open knapsack, taking the object in his hands, a feeling of dread sinking into his skin. It was a wand. And he had a sneaking suspicion that it was _her_ wand.

Finding nothing else of import, he pocketed the wand and closed up the knapsack. Then, returning to the desk drawer, he was met with two sheets of paper which hadn’t been present before. Upon each was partially-legible handwriting, except, oddly, they were harshly scribbled over with dark granite, covering almost the entirety of both sides. The surface of the pages were gouged, one of them ripped in the center from the force of it, the shape of the movements frenetic, wild. He could only just make out a few words here and there, their meaning disjointed without context.

Just then, there was a thump on the bedroom door, causing Harry to jerk with surprise. Muttering a hasty _Nox_ to snuff out the wand, he dived for his Invisibility Cloak, pulling it on just as a second thump sounded against the threshold. He held his breath, sliding a panicked glance to the still-open desk drawer, and the papers he’d left out.

Right as he began to inch over in that direction, Harry heard a small, inquisitive meow from the other side of the door. Frozen in place, he waited before another came, this one longer and drawn out, demanding. His eyes went to the pet bed on the other end of the room; evidently, it was for a cat.

Moving quickly, he snatched the scribbled pages from the desktop, shutting the drawer as well. Almost as soon as he had done so, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Then, right after, a voice, high pitched and muffled just on the other side. He couldn’t make out what the person was saying, or who they were talking to, but after the silence hung beyond the doorway a few moments more, the door cracked open. The light and noise from outside found the chance to clamor inward, permeating the space about him. He waded in it, eyes trained on the door.

He saw the large protrusion of a stomach and the painted toes of two feet, just at the crack. The voice spoke again. “Alright, Cosmo?”

A little black cat poked its head in, giving another soft, conciliatory meow. The soft tinkling of a bell sounded as he walked further into the room and the door opened wider. A pregnant woman stood at the threshold, frowning into the darkness of the bedroom as she watched the cat scamper and sniff around.

Harry felt his toes curl when the cat came his way, sniffing at the area he occupied. He had no idea if animals could detect whether or not he was there, but by the way the cat was poking around…

“She’s not in here,” the woman at the door said softly, tenderly, as if she were breaking the news for the first time. The cat turned to look at her and meowed. Harry tried not to let out an exhale.

The cat jingled and jangled toward Violet’s bed and hopped on to the covers, paws beginning to knead at the spot that, no doubt, Violet had once previously occupied. The pregnant woman at the door sighed, one hand resting on the large mound of her belly. She leaned her head against the door frame, pulling the door knob close to her body. “I miss her too, bud.”

She seem focused in reverie for a good solid while, until her attention was caught. Her eyes were focused on the spot where he sat, and he felt his heart sink. There was no way she could know. Absolutely no way. And yet? In seconds, the door was open all the way, and she waddled her way toward him. His breathing hitched in his throat and he felt his body rear back, softly colliding with the wall, until--

“How’d you--?”

She stopped short of the window sill. He felt the cloth at the top of his head sink slightly, the weight of her foot bearing down at the edge of his cloak, unwitting. Harry sat as still as he possibly could and watched as the balls of her feet shifted upwards, hoisting the entirety of her weight as she reached up and slammed the window shut. A loud gasp of air escaped her when she was on her heels again and she held her stomach, lips pursing.

A familiar shout climbed up behind the door. Charlie Ayers, calling for her. “Callie? Inspector Prince has a few questions--”

Callie glanced over her shoulder, body twisting with her. “One sec, Dad. Cosmic Creepers wanted into Vi’s room. I’m coming.”

A short walk later, the door shut, and Harry waited until the woman’s footfalls faded away to move again. When he did, the cat’s head snapped up with a short jingle, alert. Despite the noise of it, he Apparated outside, leaving behind the curious -- and likely very confused -- cat.

Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding. _Merlin_ , that had been close. But, glancing down at the papers in his hands, he hoped that what he’d been able to find was enough.

He was waiting just outside the front door for twenty minutes before Snape finally emerged from the house. “... rest assured that we will be doing everything in our power to find your daughter,” he was saying, his tone earnest. Harry shied away from categorizing it as _kind_ , considering he knew it was all an act.

“See that you do,” Charlie’s voice replied, guarded.

His wife chimed in after, “Thank you Inspector. Good night.”

When the door closed, Snape began walking away immediately. Harry disliked that he was getting used to running in his wake.

At the end of the driveway, he addressed the man, “Will you slow down? I’m right here, you know.”

“I am aware,” was Snape’s reply.

“Well then?!”

“Their neighbors have taken notice.”

Harry looked around, spotting someone peeking through the curtains across the way.

Snape spoke again. “Stay hidden, and be _silent_.”

Frowning, he followed, keeping step with the man before him for several minutes before they turned a corner, ending up… exactly where he’d left Harry when they’d split off.

Stopping, the man was all business. “What did you find?”

Despite being able to think of nothing else for the past several minutes, his thoughts jumbled the second the question was posed. He slid the cloak from his shoulders as he answered, “Er… I, uh, found Violet’s room. Where you said.”

Snape’s expression was distinctly unimpressed. “Fascinating. You realize we are more interested about what is _inside_.”

He huffed, already irritated. “I know! I got in, and there wasn’t much to see. Everything’s really clean, nothing really left lying around.”

The man’s response was a curled lip, but Harry pressed on: “But I did find two things. She had a wizardspace bag, and that’s where I found this--” He pulled the wand from his pocket. “I don’t know if it’s hers or not, but…”

Snape took the wand from his hands, turning it over once. “Have you something else of hers?” he questioned.

“Yeah, actually,” he replied, offering the two ravaged sheets of paper. “I think it’s a letter she scratched out. It was hidden with magic.”

The professor took out his wand, touching the tip to the wand Harry had found and muttering, “ _Dominus Revelare_.” A stream of light bonded to the wand, and Snape guided it toward the papers. “ _Dominus Revelare_ ,” he repeated, and the band linked to the pages before fading away.

“It is her wand,” he announced, seeming confident.

Harry, however, frowned. “What was that? How do you know?”

Snape seemed to consider this question, likely deciding if it was worth answering. Harry underlined, “Might be useful, seeing as I could have done that way earlier if I knew how.”

The older man’s expression did not change, but he did reply, “Legal wands are registered to their owners, bonded to their magical signature. If a wand’s master is uncertain, it can be queried about to any other object or person which possesses a latent trace of the master’s magical signature.”

Harry’s brain nearly melted halfway through with such technical terminology. “So… you’re saying you asked the wand if the magic used on the letter was the same as its master?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you could have just _said_ that,” he muttered, wry.

“Did you find anything else?” Snape redirected the conversation.

He didn’t particularly want to say “nothing”, especially when he had a thought that had been hounding him for the past twenty minutes. “Before I answer, I have one more question.”

“I cannot tell you anything about Lupin.”

Harry’s expression fell. “That’s… er, I wasn’t going to say anything about that,” he said quietly, the reminder smarting. “I was actually wondering… Is it possible to use Legilimency on animals?”

At that, the professor raised an eyebrow. “That all depends on the animal.”

“Violet has a pet cat,” he explained, looking up at the man. “There wasn’t much to see in her room, but maybe her cat saw or heard something the day she went missing.”

Snape surveyed him strangely, then. Harry couldn’t put his finger on why it was so strange, compared to all the other times that the professor had sized him up only that day, but it was distinct from the others. “Did you bring it with you?” the man asked.

Harry squinted. “ _No_ , why would I do that? Wouldn’t the family realize it was missing?”

The look offered him was vexed to the core. “It’s a cat, Potter. If it disappears for a few hours, no one will notice.”

Well _that_ sort of had an ominous ring to it. “Still, I’m not really keen to steal someone’s pet! Weird enough to take all this other stuff--”

“Your cooperation will not be necessary,” Snape announced. “Wait here.”

“What--?!”

Harry sighed, watching the man’s back recede. Great.

He’d settled in to wait for a good long while but, ten or so minutes in, Snape returned. Frowning, Harry remarked, “You’re already back?”

The man did not grace him with a reply. Walking by without a word, he continued down the lane. Harry followed after, as he was forced to do yet again, sighing as he went.

There was silence along the way. Harry tried a prompt or two, but Snape remained stubbornly mute for the entire journey back to the Headmaster’s Office.

Even when they arrived, he did not respond to Dumbledore’s greeting, instead heading straight to a cabinet in the corner of the room. Watching curiously, Harry felt startled when the Headmaster addressed him.

“Harry? How did it go?”

Free of other distractions, his anger came bubbling back. “Everything went _right to plan_ , I bet.”

His tone did not seem lost on Dumbledore, who peered at him with concern. “I understand that what was asked of you today may have seemed overwhelming--”

“ _Overwhelming?_ ” Harry echoed, voice climbing in pitch. “What’s overwhelming is learning that Remus has been missing for who knows how long, and _you_ didn’t bother to tell me!”

“Harry--”

“ _No!_ ” Harry erupted, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m tired of excuses! I’m tired of people _lying_ to me! Just tell me what’s happened to Remus!”

“Nothing has happened,” Dumbledore claimed, infuriatingly serene. “To my knowledge, Remus Lupin is not missing.”

Harry scoffed. He could hardly believe _that._ “Well then? Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“That is the exact definition of _missing!_ ” Harry exclaimed, irate.

“Harry,” Dumbledore broke in, raising a hand. “Although his exact location has not been disclosed to me, Remus Lupin and I have been in regular contact. He is fine. He is safe. He is not _missing_.”

This stilled Harry, though the disquiet in his mind did not subside. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he do that?”

“That, I cannot say,” Dumbledore answered, leaning back in his chair. “His reasons are his own. However, so long as he keeps contact, he is fully within his right to take time for himself.”

“Yeah, but why didn’t you _tell_ me?” he stressed, fervor returning. “After all that talk about things being different from last year, you went ahead and kept secrets. _Again!_ ”

“What purpose would it serve to make you shoulder this?” the Headmaster challenged, unwavering. “What good would it accomplish? There is nothing to be done about Remus’s situation except worry, and I thought to spare you that.”

Harry’s head drooped, dejected, seeing the man’s point. Knowing that Remus wasn’t captured or dead was, in a way, little comfort. The fact remained that he had separated himself for some unknown reason, had evidently abandoned whatever post the Order had set him on. On some level, knowing this was worse.

“I can assure you, Harry, that he is safe,” Dumbledore broke his long silence, the words quite tender. “I do not yet know when he will return, but should things take a turn for the worse, I will notify you.”

“Headmaster.” Snape’s voice broke into the fray, composed but urgent. “I am prepared to make a full report.”

Harry turned his way, having nearly forgotten he was there. Gaze inquisitive, he looked between the two men as Dumbledore rose from his seat with an affable, “Yes, Severus. Thank you.”

It was only then that he saw what Snape was standing next to. He had opened the corner cabinet, and inside was a large stone basin with a smaller metal dish lining the inside. The Pensieve. Harry was no stranger to its uses, but to see Snape standing directly beside it brought back unpleasant recollections of Occlumency lessons in the dungeons. Not to mention when he’d gone snooping in Snape’s own memories…

He didn’t have long to think about that, thankfully. Snape himself was straight to business.

“We will begin with the most pertinent findings first.”

As the Headmaster approached the Pensieve, he glanced over his shoulder. “Harry, my boy, you are part of this too,” the old man ushered him over with his voice. “Let us relieve Severus of a small part of the burden of telling the story, hm?”

The professor’s response was an irritated scowl, but Harry let himself be corralled into their semicircle around the Pensieve anyway. As he approached, the Dumbledore gestured invitingly to the basin, his fingers lit up by the muted glow from the memories swirling below. “After you,” was his prompt.

Hesitating, Harry stooped over the wooden stand, gripping the stone for support, and slowly, carefully, placed his face beneath the surface of the misty liquid.

… and his feet touched carpet.

Not real carpet, he could immediately tell. Like a dream, the details of his location were hazy, indistinct. Mere moments after he arrived, Snape and Dumbledore descended on either side of him, materializing in wisps of dark, powdery smoke.

At first, it was difficult to discern his surroundings, muted in color and detail, similar to the times he’d lost his glasses. His hand lifted, automatic, to check if they still remained -- the lenses had drifted down the bridge of his nose, but no amount of adjusting fixed the image before him. He frowned and glanced toward the other men, who stood together, solemn and quiet, eyes directed ahead of them.

He followed their line of sight to the image of a blur hunched over a desk, fidgeting frantically in place. It took a few seconds more, but the area around him began to materialize and clear -- not much better than it had been before, but he was finally able to recognize where he was standing.

Violet was on her knees in front of her desk, violently brushing the edge of a stick of charcoal against something that laid on the surface. The sound of her voice was muffled, as if she were farther away than the distance she sat from him, but he could hear her cries, interspersed with the harsh staccato of her breath as her shoulders tensed against sobs.

Dumbledore roused at his side, taking a step forward. Snape followed suit shortly after, with Harry trailing behind, eyes focused on the slump of Violet’s back.

The visage of her grew clearer the closer he got, from the side he could see the redness of her face, or what he _thought_ was redness -- the color shift was off, her skin tinted a light orange hue than the pink flush that usually came with tears. It wasn’t until he heard a soft mewling at his feet that he realized why.

Violet through a cat’s eyes.

“Not now,” the girl scolded, her teeth gnashing together, eyes wide and almost… feral.

Harry watched as the cat at his feet went and rubbed up against the side of her desk, meowing again.

Violet heaved in a harsh breath. “I said _no,_ ” she snapped.

The cat hardly relented, complaining to the girl in a series of loud, whining meows. Within seconds, Violet’s tense facade shattered, much in the way he’d seen Malfoy snap in his confrontation with Urquhart. She threw the piece of charcoal hard against the wall, her entire body foisting itself in the direction of the cat.

“ _Shut up!_ ” she snarled, the words tearing through her, ugly and enraged. “ _Shut up!_ I can’t _take_ it! Stop!”

The force of her anger left her spent rather quickly. The cat, while not outwardly terrified, did slink away, if only from the shock of hearing something loud so suddenly.

The image of it seemed to bring Violet back to her senses. Her expression shifted and softened as she stared at the cat, rueful. Her blackened hands lifted to cover her ears, pained, as her eyes closed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the cat, eyes opening again. Her tears were in her voice. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

The cat’s tail curled around itself as it sat down, staring up at her. Violet sat back on her legs in a kneel on the ground. She pressed her forehead into the butt of one of her palms, the whole of her face contorted in distress. She appeared to be in severe pain. Harry frowned.

“I want to puke,” she announced, leaning forward to brush the ruined scraps of paper aside, leaving a clear space for her to lay her head.

The cat strode forward, rubbing the side of its body against Violet’s thighs. Harry could hear its purring loud in his ears. Violet’s hand drifted down, her fingers entangling in the mess of its long, wild fur. Her head turned until she was rested on her cheek, half-lidded eyes watching as the cat pet itself with her unmoving hand.

Her hair drifted over her shoulder as she moved to look at the desk top, chin digging into the wood. She clenched her eyes again, seeming to roll through a sensation that Harry couldn’t define, before she rose to her feet and walked across the room.

She pulled something from her knapsack, the same grey one that Harry had rummaged through that day, and brought it over to the desk. It had the look of a mini cauldron, except the shape was attired garishly, bright yellows, reds, and blues surrounding the words “ _Invisi-Paint!_ ” There was subtext, of which the only word Harry could make out was ‘potion’, but Violet obscured his view, as she was busy unstopping the cork at the top. Dipping a fan-shaped paintbrush into it, she meticulously covered the whole of both blackened pages row by row, every stroke causing that section to vanish from view.

When she had finished, a sigh escaped her lips as she opened the drawer and brushed her arm across the tabletop, as if gathering thin air into it, and closed it shut with a snap.

She glanced over her shoulder, back down to the ground, where the cat was still seated, staring up at her.

“I’m sorry,” Violet apologized once more, slinking to her knees as she began to crawl to the animal. By the time she reached him, her body was laid out flat on the carpet, one arm perched on its elbow as she offered her fingers for the cat to sniff and butt its head into.

“It just hurt, Cosmo. I can’t think.”

The animal merely purred, back arching as it approached her face. Violet appeared with such clarity before Harry’s eyes, every detail of her exaggerated and sharp, as the cat slid its face against her temple, its stride leading its entire body to caress her face until its bushy tail caught against her nose. He saw Violet try to smile, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Her arm and head dropped down onto the carpet and she watched as the cat moved away from her, dipping into a leisurely zigzag to and from her body, never remaining too close, or too far away from her. Eventually, however, the cat plopped down on its side on the carpet, within arms reach.

Violet shifted her head onto its side as she reached her arm out, covering the cat’s paw with her hand. Within an instant, the cat retracted its paw closer to its body. It was odd, how such an action made Violet’s face pull into a bittersweet smile.

There was a long, protracted period in which nothing at all happened. Awkward, Harry fidgeted, not particularly interested in watching Violet lay on the ground, inert, listening to the soft drone of the cat’s purring. Every so often, Harry glanced up at the adults in the room, only to be met with their stony expressions as they took in every detail of the scene, even in this length of silence.

Harry was about to speak, if only to break the uneasiness that was rising within him from all the waiting, when a resounding, frenetic knock thundered through the house. The cat’s head snapped toward her bedroom door. Violet’s eyes shuddered open.

“No,” she murmured, burying her face back in the carpet.

Her refusal didn’t matter much, nor did it prevent the next round of knocks from flooding the house. Violet’s annoyed groan bled into the carpet, her hands reaching up to cover her ears again.

Another pause. Then, another flurry of knocks.

Violet’s head lifted in the direction of the door, her entire body lurching as her fingers tightened around the domes of her ears. She appeared to be in pain again, overwhelmed and panicked, tears prickling in her eyes. He couldn’t quite understand her distress; from the story her parents told, she would have been, rightfully, angry. Upset, even. But in this moment, when all was otherwise calm and uneventful, a regular knock was enough to thoroughly disturb her. It seemed… wrong, to be witnessing these most vulnerable moments of a girl he barely knew. Harry frowned, his gaze flicking toward Snape and Dumbledore for a reaction, but there was none.

Violet was quick to wipe her eyes and stand when she realized that the knocking wasn’t going to stop. It took a few moments of staggering before she was rushing out the door, heading in the direction of the sitting room. Harry was quick to follow just behind, however…

As he reached the door, he felt his entire body jerk and still. He was unable to move further than the threshold of the open bedroom, his body supplanted in place, paralyzed.

“Er…” Harry turned his head, baffled. “Is there something wrong with this memory?”

Snape’s voice carried to him as if it were floating from a great distance, the sound arriving long after his mouth moved. “There is nothing _wrong_ with it.” His supreme indignation managed to reach Harry, even with the delay.

Dumbledore’s words were kinder. “I presume this memory belongs to little Cosmo, here.” He gestured to the cat. “We will only see as he sees.”

The cat in question had entrenched itself in the middle of the carpet, busy cleaning itself and stretching its legs out luxuriously. Harry watched it, mouth turning down in frustration. “Well! How are we supposed to know what Violet’s doing?!”

“Patience,” the Headmaster urged him, while Snape simultaneously commanded, “Quiet.”

Harry almost wished he could urge the cat out the door himself, anxious and restless as he was to find out what the hell Violet was _doing_. This was their only shot, wasn’t it? Every second strung itself out and he felt it as a tensing in his muscles as he stared at the cat, _willing_ it to move.

There was the sound of shuffling feet at the front of the house, which finally, _thankfully_ , bade the cat to leave the room. Harry was the first to exit, rushing out on sprinting feet as he silently hoped that the cat would make a beeline for wherever Violet was, instead of getting distracted elsewhere.

The cat made it to the couch, the one that Charlie and Sasha had sat in when he and Snape had questioned them a week before. Thankfully, Violet’s body was in sight. She’d just returned, torch in hand, and had handed it to someone who was at the door.

“... thank you, yes. This will help so much,” Harry heard a male voice seep in, sounding relieved, but nervous. His accent was distinctly not-Welsh.

“No problem,” was Violet’s meek reply, her form receding back into the house. “I hope you find him before it gets too late.”

“Me too.” Harry could hear footsteps moving away outside. “Thank you again. I’m so sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s nothing,” Violet lied, her hand dropping to hold the doorknob. “You can leave the torch on the front step when you’re done. Have a good night.”

Harry could hear words that sounded like “you too” lance through the distance, but he wasn’t too sure. He watched as Violet stepped away from the door, moving to close it.

However, there was the noise of a rushed step toward the entrance, the brush of a hand going to hold the door. “Wait,” he heard the man say, before pausing, reticent.

Violet’s shoulders tensed. “Yes?”

“I’m--” Harry heard a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not from around here and I know it’s late but -- is there any way I could get you to help? I promise it wouldn’t be long. I just don’t know this area well and--”

Violet vacillated from one foot to the other, uncertain. “I don’t know--”

“You don’t have to say yes. I just want to make sure I find him. He’s still a puppy, you know? And I’m worried about him. I would really appreciate it.”

Violet’s head dipped and collided gently with the door frame. Harry watched as she stood there, staring out at the front porch in clear deliberation. Then, she raised on her toes, her head dipping into a nod. “Okay, uhm. Just one sec. Let me get a coat.”

A woosh of breath escaped from the man. “Thank you. You’re so kind. _Thank_ you, really--”

Violet stepped away from the door and trotted back to her room. Seconds later she reemerged, a large wool-knit sweater draped over her torso. She rushed her way across the house, however when she caught the cat’s eye, she made a quick detour where it was perched on the couch cushions.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she promised as she leaned down and pressed a soft peck to the top of the cat’s head. It leaned in, eyes closing. The scene around Harry darkened. “Be good, Cosmo.”

Violet glided away from the couch and when the room brightened again, Harry noticed the door had opened, the man standing there, holding it.

Harry’s breath strangled itself. This man… The dark coat, that fair, freckled skin, the wispy mop of hair atop his head. That face, those expressive fragments which seemed more suited to snarling and shrieking in mania, now contorted into a calm, friendly affect.

_How…?_

“Ready?” His smile was beguiling.

Violet merely nodded, stepping out onto the front porch.

And Barty Crouch Jr., eyes briefly scanning the inside of the house, closed the door behind her.


	8. Probability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we come to chapter eight, finally!! We hope you enjoy reading it as much we enjoyed writing it! As well: Merry has been aching to change an old chapter image, so keep an eye out for that. ;)
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 9: 3rd of November

When Cleo arrived at Divination, her three classmates and the partners they’d invited were dithering below the trapdoor. Oddly, she recognized a few of the new faces.

Harry stood beside his redheaded friend, who looked displeased when she approached. “You again,” he mumbled, loud enough for her to hear.

“ _Ron_.” There was a distinct warning in Harry’s tone, though it vanished when he addressed her a moment later: “I, er, didn’t know you took Divination.”

“I don’t,” Cleo denied, breezy. May as well have fun with them.

“Oh.” Harry slanted a perplexed glance at the other Gryffindors in their group, though Lavender and Parvati were too busy chatting amongst themselves to notice. His gaze returned to her. “Well, we’re just here to help out, so I guess that’s what you’re here for then?”

“Yep,” Cleo exhaled, glancing down at the girl beside her. Thea beamed.

The redhead’s eyes narrowed, darting between them both. “Who’s this, then?” he questioned, puffing himself up.

“This is Thea Waters,” Cleo introduced the first year before looking to the two boys. “Thea, this is Harry Potter and-- err, Ron Weasley, is it?”

He crossed his arms, uttering a thick, “ _Yeah_.”

Harry raised a hand in greeting, the motion a bit stiff. “Hi,” he said, peering at her curiously. “You, uh… Are _you_ in this class?”

When Thea glanced her way, Cleo rose her eyebrows. “Yeah,” the first year announced without hesitation, arms crossing. “I brought Cleo.”

Weasley harrumphed. “ _Right_ , and I’m a ghoul’s granddad.”

Cleo feigned offense. “You doubt her?”

“Well yeah! She looks barely out of her nappies, much less--!”

“What Ron _means_ to say,” Harry cut in, looking tired at that point, “is it’s _nice_ to meet you.”

Thea appeared quite genuinely affronted by the comment about her age, puffing herself up as she stared ahead with a raised chin. “I _suppose_ I can say the same as well,” the girl returned, pitching her voice low.

Cleo glanced up at the ceiling to hide her smile. Thankfully, Harry didn’t seem to take notice when he wondered, “What is it you’re actually learning in N.E.W.T. Divination, where you need extra partners?”

Thea fielded that question masterfully. “Libranomancy.”

Weasley nearly choked, accusing, “You just made that up!”

Cleo had to bite down on her lip hard to keep from laughing as Thea gazed, imperious, in Weasley’s direction, defining with ease: “Libranomancy, a subsection of pyromancy, where one divines the future through smoke burned from incense, wood, and--”

“What a load of tripe!”

Harry frowned at his friend. “What’s it matter, Ron? All we ever did in Divination was make things up, anyway…”

The boy’s face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. “That’s not the same thing!”

Thea’s nose wrinkled. “How does that work?” she asked, glancing up at Cleo. “Divination’s magic, isn’t it? How do you make things up for magic?”

Cleo lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It’s complicated.”

Before the boys had a chance to reply, another voice, soft and airy, blossomed beside them. “All magic is made up, actually.”

Harry turned a puzzled glance in the girl’s direction. “Er… Alright Luna?”

Weasley, on the other hand, looked even further put off. “Don’t you start blithering on about some harebrained _Quibbler_ tripe--”

Her dreamy words cut straight through the insult. “New spells and potions are invented every day, did you know?”

Thea glanced down at the floor, thoughtful. “Guess that makes sense…”

Evidently, Harry wasn’t quite catching on. “What has any of that got to do with Divination?”

The girl, Luna presumably, did not respond, her face alighting in a smile as she seemed to spot Cleo that very moment. “Oh! I know you! I saw you, just the other day.”

“Did you?” Cleo asked, wary.

“Yes!” Luna confirmed, rolling back on her heels. “You look lovely all dressed up in flowers, by the way.”

“What?” Thea blurted, her eyes darting between the two. “When did you--”

“I wish the trees liked me as much as they like you,” the whimsical girl lamented. “They took my favorite scarf, so I think they are rather cross with me.”

Cleo couldn’t decipher any of that, at least not properly. She could only manage, slightly slack-jawed, a meager question. “Who did you come with?”

With an open hand, she gestured toward the other grouping of girls, directing their sight to a sprightly Hufflepuff, talking animatedly in their midst. “Megan asked me.”

Weasley frowned. “Who’s that? Never met her.”

“I can’t imagine how you missed her,” Luna remarked, eyebrows lifted. “She is a very bright person.”

“Who’s bright?” Megan cut in, withdrawing from her previous conversation and as chipper as ever. “Miss Cleo? I thought so too. Your hair looks so _silky_ today!”

“Thanks, Megan,” Cleo replied, tilting her head. It took a second before she pointed to the girl’s hands. “Cute nails. Did you do that yourself?”

“Nope! All Luna!” the girl enthused, crossing over the space to display them to Cleo. “Isn’t it pretty? She even spelled them to change color when I tap my fingers, look.”

Though the demonstration did not disappoint, they were then interrupted by a loud bang, the trapdoor above them having been thrown open. All eight heads looked upward in unison as the scraggly bush of Trelawney’s hair came into view.

“What’s all this noise?” she questioned, voice meandering as she squinted through the porthole.

One of the girls (Lavender Brown, if Cleo was remembering correctly) frowned back at the professor, nonplussed. “The door wasn’t open,” she explained. “We didn’t know if you were ready for class yet.”

Trelawney grimaced, appearing to mull that over. “It’s not class time,” she muttered.

“Oh! Um,” Megan chirped, hand raised in the air, “it’s just gone eleven, Professor! And we’ve brought friends along to help us, like you instructed!”

The professor’s face disappeared from view, but a hefty groan drifted down the ladder from the dark room above. The group exchanged looks, uncertain and uncomfortable. However, Megan, terminally joyful as she was, led the charge. The force of her enthusiasm encompassed them all, compelling them through the trapdoor despite their misgivings.

The classroom was full dark, to such a degree that everyone was stumbling around trying to find which cushion belonged to them. Where Trelawney had gone off to, she couldn’t tell, but there was nothing for it, she supposed. Cleo managed to move carefully to her regular spot toward the front of the room, Thea in tow, but even still, they encountered a good amount of elbows and murmured apologies along their way.

“Can’t we get a light in here?” she heard Weasley blurt out, his exasperation plain. A moment later, his wand blinded everyone with its sudden light, causing them to squint with discomfort.

However, no one was more disgruntled by this than Professor Trelawney herself, who reared back on the settee she was slumped upon, her arm swinging in a sluggish arc as it went to cover her face. “Put that _away!_ ” she croaked, her words dragging themselves out on a painful groan.

“Professor?” That was Parvati, her worried expression stark beside Weasley’s _Lumos_.

The woman took hold of a nearby shawl, draping it across her face with an exaggerated swipe. Still, Cleo could plainly see the corners of her mouth twitch downward. “Turn. It. Off!” the woman shrieked ahead of another moan, her opposite hand clutching her glasses so hard Cleo thought they might snap.

“Alright, _alright_ ,” Weasley groused, the room falling dark once more.

The professor took in a huge breath, beads rustling as her voice emerged from the darkness. “Light bodes foul _fortune_ today,” she stressed. “I advise you all not to try your _luck._ ”

“Er… Professor?” That was Harry. “You alright?”

“Yeah, you’re making less sense than usual,” Weasley commented beside a soft thud, presumably made by him dropping down onto one of the plush pillows that were littered about.

Trelawney’s jewelry clinked once more as she moved, though it was hard to track her. “I have yet to recover from the lunar phases,” she lamented, indeed sounding ill.

It wasn’t very clear what exactly she meant by that, but Megan piped up, “Oh, you mean the full moon? Wow, you must be really sensitive, since it’s been off for a full week…!”

The words could have sounded condescending, but Megan had a way about her which was utterly sincere, such that Trelawney did not refute her. Or, perhaps, she merely hadn’t noticed her implication, since another drawn-out, melodramatic moan of pain emitted from the corner she'd curled up in.

Noticing there was nothing set up for their class, Cleo found herself searching the room for anything that even _remotely_ indicated that there was a lesson plan. It was hard to make out much of anything in the overcast; even Thea, who sat stone still beside her, was nothing more than a silhouette.

Lavender Brown spoke again. “If you aren’t well, Professor, should you go see Madam Pomfrey? One of us could take you.”

“No, no, _no_ \--” Trelawney suddenly squawked, clawing at the layers of beads at her chest and shaking her head, the black mass of her form appearing to heave over the side of her seat. “I'm fine! Better than fine! Better than that-- _ow_ \--!”

Clutching her head and mumbling to herself in the dark, she looked properly insane.

“Have you hurt yourself, Professor?” Megan asked, her voice lancing clear and sharp in the dark.

“She has, I think,” Luna concurred from her nearby perch.

Parvati fretted, “Perhaps we ought to fetch Madame Pomfrey here directly…”

“Libranomancy,” Trelawney said in a perfectly normal voice, the shift in her demeanor quite jarring. “The ancient and formidable art of divining the visions of _smoke_ and _mist_.”

The class collectively paused their chatter, waiting on the woman’s next words with wary anticipation. The woman’s hands shook as she lifted them into the air. “These secret arts are not to be trifled with… only those gifted with the _Sight_ may gaze upon the aetherial plane… _and--_ ”

Trelawney doubled over, losing her steam and shriveling up on the spot as she cradled her face. Then, an arm slicing through the air to point off to the side, she grumbled, “Oh-- just get the _sodding_ braziers…”

One student from each group, those willing to brave the dark, rose and made an orderly -- or as orderly as one could manage, stumbling about as they were -- queue to the corner where Trelawney had indicated. Cleo had to pat her hands around until her fingers brushed against a grainy, coarse metal spike. It took estimating the width of the bloody thing until she felt confident enough to lift it off the ground and begin to make her trek back.  
  
Most of them had returned to their seats before they heard Trelawney announce again, her voice a low thrum as her head bent further downward against the side of her chair. “The tinder, too.”

“You joking?” Weasley scoffed. “Hoping we’ll stub our toes straight off?”

“C’mon, Ron,” Lavender coaxed. “Relax, please? She’s not feeling all that well.”

Before the boy could answer, Harry spoke up. “I’ll fetch some for everyone.”

“Oh, lovely!” Luna’s voice glided through the dark, sing-song. “That’s just like you, really.”

It was well enough the boy offered; Cleo didn’t feel like going back herself and was in the mood to take his charity if he was willing to give it. She arrived in front of Thea’s shadow, grunting softly as she lowered the brazier between them.

She halted, though, a few inches before the thing touched the ground. “Feet out of the way?”

Thea’s head twitched upward slightly, as if pulled from reverie. “Huh?”

“Your feet.”

“Oh,” the girl murmured. “You’re fine.”

She released the hunk of metal to the floor and carefully crawled back to her seating pillow, sigh escaping her once she situated herself. “How are you holding up?” Cleo asked, leaning toward the first year.

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark; she swore she could see the slight twist in Thea’s lips as she shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

Cleo’s smile was slight. “Scared of the dark?”

“No.” Thea’s voice was clipped. Bothered.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” Cleo teased.

“ _No,_ ” the girl returned again, just as icy as before.

At that moment, Harry reached them with an armful of wood, placing a few in the brazier and setting some off to the side for later use. He didn’t reply when she muttered her gratitude to him, stalking back into the dark to top off the other students. Probably not a bad idea. Were it her, she’d want to get this entire ordeal finished as soon as possible.

Were it.

Maybe she _did_ just want to get this over with.

Feeling ungainly in her seat, she shifted toward Thea again, beseeching her attention in the gloom. The girl wasn’t exactly cooperative; she sat, the stiffness of her posture making her appear statuesque.

“What with the fire, it’ll be like camp, I’d wager,” was Cleo’s incredibly _awful_ attempt at levity.

Thea’s acknowledgement was a soft hum, though she was otherwise unresponsive.

In her periphery, Cleo noticed Trelawney rise from her seat, unsteady. “Now, I want us all to be clear that this is the _correct_ way, _the only sane way_ to divine by fire--”

“Correct way, Professor?” Parvati asked. Her voice sounded closer than before.

“Yes!” the woman insisted, voice going rather shrill for a moment before she clutched at her head once more. Cleo couldn’t help but notice Thea flinch beside her. “Yes, _correct_. You’re not to go deviating into uncivilized practices-- It is my job, nay, my _duty,_ to guide your minds in suitable paths, that your Inner Eye may open to its fullest!”

By the end, she’d worked herself up into a bit of a frenzy, if the frenetic jangling of her beads was anything to go by. “Now, let’s see some fires, hm? We’ll show _him--_ ”

It was unsettling. Cleo had never seen Professor Trelawney like this before. A bit ornery and frayed at the edges, sure, but…

“Him?” Megan questioned.

Apparently, it had been unwise to focus on that point. Just as one of the braziers sprang to life, the professor’s expression, pallid and contorted with fury, was illuminated.

“The _horse_ ,” she gritted, her hands clenching her shawls in a vice grip. “We’re doing it _better_ than the horse.”

The horse?

Luna, however, seemed to shed some light on the matter, disquietingly serene as ever. “Oh, Professor Firenze?”

“That name is not welcome in _my_ classroom!” the woman shrieked. “Nor the negative energy it courts! _Not_ again, Miss Lovegood! This is a place of _learning!_ ”

This drew a loud snort from Weasley, but he quickly covered it up with a cough.

The woman’s tirade reminded her of her mother in the worst way possible. Beyond that, matters hadn’t been cleared up all that much for Cleo. She had no idea who Professor Firenze was, or why he was apparently a _horse_. Whatever that meant.

“Now, if you’re all _quite finished_ ,” she said, her hand reaching up to massage her forehead, her eyes closing against what appeared to be pain, “shall we get on with the lesson?”

Silence met her pronouncement. She seemed to take it as permission. “When your fires are lit, you will be taken into a trancelike state,” Trelawney told them. “Brought upon by the fragrant Clancus wood and _enhanced_ by Celtic sea salts, they will focus your Sight, allowing you to transcend the mortal world and behold strange visions of the beyond!”

In response, two other fires came alight across the room. The brilliance of the flames bade Professor Trelawney to retreat back to her settee. Tearing her eyes away, Cleo returned her attention to their kindling, lighting it with a prompt _Incendio_.

Thea’s face shimmered into view, materializing behind the tendrils of flame. Her eyes were planted at her lap, hands holding one another just above her waist.

“Thea?”

The girl blinked. “Mm?”

There was something Cleo had wished to ask ever since they’d entered the classroom. She thought better of it. “You should give me your hands.”

Thea looked as if she’d rather eat them than obey. “Oh.”

“Or you could just look me in the eye,” Cleo offered.

She didn’t seem to want to do _that_ , either. But the girl managed, though not without her gaze ambling before it reached her stare. Cleo greeted her with a smile.

Thea didn’t appear to appreciate it much. “What?”

Cleo shrugged. “Just, hello?”

She scowled. “Why are you being weird?”

 _I’m not_ , Cleo felt herself near to saying. But that wouldn’t have helped, not with Thea’s sudden plummeting mood. “Are you okay?”

“Why do you keep asking that?”

“This is the first time I’ve asked,” Cleo countered.

The girl’s nose wrinkled. For the time being, however, she seemed to give up on being combative. “How’re you supposed to do this?”

Cleo stared at the crackling flames, feeling her eyes get a bit watery. “I think I’m supposed to breathe in the smoke and go into a trance.”

“Is that even safe?”

She frowned. Hell if she knew. She was already detesting the smell of the fragranced wood; it was a bit like the stronger incense her mother used when she did her Yule rituals, the ones that made her nauseated. She couldn’t stomach breathing _that_ in, but…

Cleo leaned in slightly, flaring her nostrils on a slight, cowardly sniff. The scent careened like a punch to her nose, and Cleo reared back, covering her nose with a hand.

She heard a giggle flutter from where Thea was sitting. Cleo narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, so _that’s_ funny, is it?” her words peeked out from behind her palm, muffled.

“Uh, yeah?” Thea shot back, snickering.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, really. Cleo was at least happy to see her in a lighter mood.

Her hands slunk into her lap and she grimaced. Thea was peering at her. “Feel trancey yet?”

“My head aches,” she replied, squinting.

“Well, Miss Cleo?” the girl prodded, besetting herself with a dramatic, mystical tone. “Tell me my future?”

Cleo shot her a look. _Very funny._

Thea’s lips pursed before she glanced over her shoulder, pensive. “Bet I have a prediction.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

Thea sat up straighter, her eyes searching just over Cleo’s shoulder. “That everyone will be dead before the hour is out,” she commented, unnervingly mellow.

“What?”

The girl appeared preoccupied with something. “Are there any windows in here?”

Still confused, Cleo stared at her, blank faced.

Thea scowled. “Carbon Monoxide?”

“Oh, Jesus--” Cleo sputtered, glancing over her shoulder as well. “I hadn’t thought about that--”

“It crossed my mind when you mentioned campfires,” Thea mentioned. “I thought maybe there’d be a fumigation thing at work but uhm. Please ask her?”

“You can’t?”

Thea grew impatient fast. “Please just do it?”

Cleo wasn’t all that excited to bother the beast when she’d seemed to settle, hunched over, on her satin pillows. But there was nothing for it, was there? Cleo leaned toward her, calling her with a subdued: “Professor Trelawney?”

She hadn’t heard her, apparently. Or maybe she didn’t want to be bothered. Cleo looked back at Thea, who frowned, eyes urging her. _Try again_.

“Professor Trelawney?” Louder this time.

Nothing.

Cleo, with a pained expression, cleared her throat. Then, louder still: “Professor Trelawney!”

The woman’s form flinched to dodge her voice, but for what it was worth, she _did_ roll over, looking perturbed and worse for wear. “ _What?_ ”

“I--” Cleo swallowed. “Listen, I was wondering if we could open some of the windows.”

“Whatever _for?_ ”

“Safety,” Cleo answered, purposefully calm. “There’s a reason why people don’t light big fires indoors--”

“My rooms are hardly going to burn _down,_ Miss Croft,” Trelawney dismissed, groggy.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Cleo objected. “It’s just, if we don’t have a source of air, we’re unsafe--”

“We are _perfectly_ safe, my dear,” Trelawney assured her, looking about as finished with this conversation as one possibly could. “And besides, it’s quite chilly outside…”

“I’m certain we will keep warm with the fires,” Cleo reasoned. “Please, I think it’s best if we open some of the windows.”

“I know what I'm doing!” the woman asserted, growing impatient. “All I ask is a little faith, child.”

Cleo was starting to feel a bit irritated as well. She saw Thea tense beside her, overwrought. The girl was completely wound up, appearing as if she had something to say. However, there was no resolve behind her posture -- just vigilance.

“It has nothing to do with faith,” Cleo objected, returning her attention to the professor. “Perhaps we should just move this outdoors. Maybe to the Astronomy tower? You can stay in the lower quarters while we’re up top--”

“Outdoors?! Like _him?_ ” Trelawney uttered with disdain, as if the implication offended her to her very core. “I think not!”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Cleo told her, doing her level best to sound as even keeled as possible. “Professor, I’m really not trying to insult you. I’m being serious. We either need the windows open, or we need to go outside.”

“You’ve yet to provide a suitable _reason_ ,” the woman near growled, her palm canopying over her eyes to shield her from the firelight. Cleo could see her eyes squinting behind the thick frames of her glasses.

She lowered her voice. “Because if we _don’t_ , everyone is going to get _very sick_.”

She saw a few heads turn, particularly Weasley, who had struck up a whispered exchange with the other Gryffindors. Still, no one rose to her aid.

Trelawney, for her part, peered at Cleo with interest. “You seem very confi--” The woman gasped, force of it rocking the whole of her frame, causing herself, and several students, to flinch. Still, her rhapsodic realization appeared to transcend whatever ache she was struggling against. “My dear… Have… Have you had a _vision_?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Cleo leaned into this reasoning; anything to get the woman motivated and _moving_. “Just now. So could we please--”

“I knew this day would come!” Trelawney exclaimed, beside herself. “I always told you, didn't I? That one day, you would be _awakened_ to--”

“Yes, I understand,” Cleo broke in, trying to tamp down the woman’s excitement. “Time is of the essence, though. So if you please?”

There was a bit of a bustle as she sat up, ready to acquiesce. However, in an instant, Trelawney's expression grew sour. “Wait,” she muttered, placing her glasses atop her nose to peer suspiciously at Cleo. “You haven't even added your salts.”

She wasn't sure how effective it would be to dig deeper into this lie. “I didn’t need to,” Cleo countered, quick on her feet. “Premonition.”

The woman frowned, pulling her shawls around her primly. “Clytemnestra, I am disappointed,” she announced. “I understand how you must feel, separated from your Inner Eye, but you need not resort to _falsehoods_ , my dear.”

Okay. This wasn’t working. Foregoing Trelawney altogether, Cleo twisted her body in the direction of where Weasley and Harry sat, their bodies no more than slight slits of shadow struck through by the firelight. “Can you open some of the windows? We’re going to get Carbon Monoxide poisoning if we don’t keep the room ventilated.”

Weasley scoffed, “Carbon _whatsit?_ ”

Harry's wand was in his hand when Trelawney spoke again. “Cleo. _Listen_ to me.”

“Professor I would be _very happy to,_ ” she oozed, emphatic, “but _after_ the windows are open. Please.”

“This is _my_ classroom, not yours,” the woman retorted. “I do not need you dictating to _me--_ ”

“Professor, I’m not trying to,” Cleo explained. “But this is a real thing. You can’t have large lit fires in a room with no ventilation. It can kill you.”

“I thought I made this _clear_ ,” Trelawney drawled, long-suffering. “No more _lies_.”

Maybe the woman’s conduct was bothering her more than she realized. Nothing else could explain the very rapid surge of anger that coursed through her, hoisting her to a stand. All instinct; all muscle memory. “I’m not lying?” Cleo balked. “Combustion reactions require oxygen! Every time a combustion reaction occurs, carbon dioxide results as a product. In a place that is oxygen deprived, combustion still occurs, but it’s _incomplete!_ Instead of carbon _di_ oxide, you get carbon _mon_ oxide! Which, when breathed in, attaches to the sites on your blood cells where oxygen _should go_ and when _that_ happens your organs start to suffoc--!”

“That will be quite enough!” Trelawney cut in, irate. She drew herself up, as if preparing for considerable difficulty. “And that will be ten points from Slytherin!”

A chorus of murmurs followed, the energy in the room falling further off-kilter, but Cleo’s anger wasn’t nearly spent; this was too familiar: Trelawney’s _audacity._ On anyone else, it could be borne. But _this_ just ran too close to home--

“Just because you don’t _understand_ doesn’t mean I’m lying!” Cleo seethed. “I don’t care -- take all the points you want! I’m trying to make sure you don’t get _fired_ for doing something so irredeemably _stupid and dangerous!_ ”

There was a horrible quiet in the classroom for the span of several seconds, punctuated only by the crackling of their four wood fires. Trelawney's chest was heaving, a hand to her forehead, but when she looked at Cleo, it was with the most resolute face she'd ever seen on the woman. “You are like something _possessed_ , Cleo,” she accused, voice quivering.

“ _I’m_ possessed?” Cleo derided. She realized she’d seen this before. She _knew_ this. Intimately. And _that’s_ why she was mad, wasn’t it? Why she felt like she couldn’t stop? Couldn’t obey? “Do you even see yourself? What made you think you could come out here like _this?_ In no state to teach, much less make _decisions_ \--”

“I am-- I am perfectly able…” was Trelawney's feeble objection.

“What do you call this then?!” Cleo challenged, indignant. “Completely strung out, unable to even to get your classroom together, completely _losing_ it at the simplest--?!”

“Stop this!” the professor begged, distraught. “You-- You can’t _treat_ me like this--”

“How can you possibly think you’re in any position to tell _me_ what I can and can’t do?” Cleo sneered. “You actually _believe_ \--”

“Cleo! Stop!” a voice behind her entreated, shaken. Megan. “ _Look_ at her!”

The plea washed over her, stark and chilling, and she came to. Her eyes kept hold of an afterimage of the woman in front of her, brazen and bold, for only a moment longer before the current tableau settled in her vision. Cleo hadn’t known she’d taken steps forward, neither had she realized she was towering over the professor, collapsed on her settee, wide eyes staring up at her, glimmering with tears.

She was still breathing heavy, her hand clutching her shawls.

Cleo faltered, her leg swinging back to distance herself. She let out a breath.

Trelawney had run out of voice. Her eyes remained affixed to Cleo’s face. Terrified. She’d actually _terrified_ her.God damn it. This wasn’t even Trelawney’s _fault._ She didn’t know better.

“You’re right,” Cleo admitted, ashamed. This was Tenenbaum all over again. “This isn’t productive. I’ll go.”

She turned and gathered her things. Thea was doggedly watching, but Cleo couldn’t bear to look her in the eye.

When she slung her bag over her shoulder, she glanced to Trelawney once more, who hadn’t moved one inch from her original position. A few of the girls in her periphery, she saw, were already bent over their fires, eyes locked on the professor with expressions of sympathy. They looked poised to spring to the woman’s aid.

Well. Once the _storm_ had passed, anyway. Cleo’s head bowed. “Professor, whatever’s going on--” she stopped herself. No. _Not_ her responsibility. Drop it.

“I’m sorry,” she tried instead, head shaking. She shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Please consider opening the windows.”

By the time she’d made it down the ladder, she heard a flurry of voices cooing above, silenced only once she’d shut the trap door and let herself plop to the ground.

 _That_ had been a failure all around, hadn’t it?

It was probably better to go off by herself at that point; perhaps plant herself at the furthest end of the castle and wait out the discomfort. However, there was the matter of Thea.

As much as Cleo hated the idea, she could brave whatever judgement came tumbling down that ladder when class time ended. But she _had_ to talk to Thea. She had to at least explain herself. The way she’d handled the situation had been so… _inappropriate_.

So, she waited it out.

She parked herself in a corner with her chemistry text, skimming old chapters to kill the time. Eventually, the sound of footsteps rumbled above her. The trap door opened.

Oddly, Thea was the first one out, her descent on the ladder more of a slide. Better than any of the other students, she supposed. She didn’t think she could confront them right now. Cleo pushed off the wall, calling at once: “Thea?”

The girl stopped dead, her head snapping in Cleo’s direction. She offered the girl an apologetic smile. However, with barely a pause, Thea turned on her heel and ran down the flight of stairs.

Cleo picked up in a trot after her. “Thea?”

The girl did not relent in her attempt to escape. Cleo was only _just_ able to head her off into one of the alcoves past the base of the Tower stairs, using the length of her arms to block her from escaping. “Thea, stop--”

“Cleo!”

The girl struggled to push past her body as Cleo pressed it against the side of the alcove, impeding her escape.

“Please let me explain--”

“No,” Thea whined. “Not right now! I want to be alone!”

Not right now? “I won’t blame you if you’re mad at me. How I acted was _horrible_ \--”

“Cleo!” she bleated. “It’s not _that_. Please, I just want to go--”

Cleo watched the girl, suddenly more alert. “Did something happen?”

“Yes--” the girl allowed to slip, before she grimaced. “No! Just--”

“Thea,” Cleo murmured in soft, soothing tones. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“ _Nothing!_ ” the girl insisted.

“What is _wrong?_ ”

“I want to be alone!” Thea pleaded, the tears emerging in her voice. She hid her face, humiliated.

The two of them froze as the sound of feet scraped behind them. Thea slammed her body into the corner, and Cleo remained as she was, back to the stairs, arms pinioned on either side of the alcove, her robes acting as a courtesy veil. It wasn’t until the sounds of the footfalls faded into the distance that Cleo spoke again, tender. “Please talk to me.”

Thea’s shoulders struggled with the weight of her breathing, and she shook her head against the wall, her curls bobbing haphazardly against her back. “I want to be alone,” she groused.

“I know,” Cleo said, leaning her head against her forearm. “And if you tell me again, I’ll let you go.”

Thea turned her face, looking up at the older girl squarely.

“But I’m your friend,” she reminded the first year. “You can talk to me. You don’t have to deal with this alone. Whatever this is.”

They stood at an impasse, their eyes beholding one another as the girl considered this. Her reticence seemed to fade, if only because it seemed she recognized _solidarity_. A _safety_ , Cleo hoped.

“Trelawney--” Thea’s voice petered out.

Cleo had the sinking feeling that she knew what the girl was about to say. However, she didn’t speak. She turned into the alcove, allowing Thea more room to move, and gave her time to build courage again.

“Trelawney…” Thea tried again, holding her stomach. “You saw it too, didn’t you? She was--”

Footsteps echoed down to where they stood, fast paced, silencing Thea in an instant. Harry and his friend came into view, their steps stalling out as they took in the scene.

Harry spoke first. “Is everything, um… You alright?”

Thea’s distress mounted and Cleo turned to them quickly. “Not right now,” she warned them, quiet. “Could you please just give us a moment--”

“What’s it matter?” the cry burst from Thea as she slammed herself against the wall again. She pulled her hands over her face. “Now everyone can see. I _told_ you, I wanted to be alone, and now _everyone_ knows--!”

Cleo knelt beside her, grasping her upper arms. “Hey, hey-- listen to me. It’s just them. And Harry’s a nice boy--”

“Who cares if he’s _nice?_ ” Thea sobbed, trying to bury herself out of sight again. “He _knows_ and now everyone’s going to _know_ , they’re going to _see_ \--” The cry that tore through her was painful and childish, familiar enough that she felt an urge to hold the girl close. Cleo barely resisted acting on it.

“Hey,” Harry addressed her, voice hushed and cautious. “Er, nobody really… Most people don’t really believe anything Trelawney says…”

Oddly, Weasley attempted to assist as well, his voice gruff. “Nobody believes what Harry and I say, either.”

“Say?” Cleo cut in, frowning, before she searched Thea’s expression again. “Did she say something to you?”

“Who cares what she--” Thea sputtered, the words carried on a hiccup. “That’s not--”

“What is it, then?” Cleo consoled her, patient.

Thea’s eyes, red and glassy, darted between Cleo’s face and the boys that stood just behind her. Her gaze plummeted to the floor, and something within her seemed to recede. That same look Cleo observed earlier, when Thea saw Trelawney first.

Trying to catch it before Thea shut it away, she tried, grasping the girl’s arms tighter, “Thea--”

“I don’t want to die.”

The sentence slid down between them, timid and mild. But then, Thea’s eyes jolted up, catching Cleo’s, more earnest and awash with a fresh batch of tears. She tried it again, more urgent: “I don’t want to die!”

It wasn’t a whole truth. Not even close. Not to the one she was going to share when they had properly been _alone_. But it did appear like the upfront truth; the truth that stood before them, panicked and wild. A truth that she should address, before any of her own suspicions could be worked through. Her hands slid to the girl’s elbows, propping them up. “Die? What are you talking about?”  
  
When the girl didn’t answer, Cleo turned to the other two. “What is she talking about?”

Weasley was the one who answered. “Trelawney sort’ve went a bit off her block and told her she was gonna be turned to ash.”

“She paired up with Thea after you left, to ah-- divine her future,” Harry filled in the blanks. “And, er… yeah.”

“ _Absolutely mental,_ that one. Going on about how she’d suffer horribly, burnt up until there was nothing left and--”

“ _Ron_ , can you not? She’s standing right there.”

“Oh.” He at least looked abashed, his concerned glance going to Thea. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Cleo turned to the first year, appalled. How could Trelawney do something like that? Sure, Cleo had acted _horrendously,_ but to take it out on an eleven year old--

“Is that what she told you?”

Thea’s head dipped into a solitary nod, nothing more.

“It’s completely ridiculous,” Cleo promised, finding herself scrambling to say _something_ that could comfort. “She was picking up on the images around her, okay? She saw you burn in fire because there was a fire _right there_. It was like a cold reading. You know about that?”

Thea shook her head. “It’s not _that_ \--”

“Yeah, you don’t need to worry on that account,” Harry commented, quiet. “She predicts people’s deaths every other day, and we’re all fine.”

“Right,” Ron budged in, his tone more subdued as well, the most gentle she’d ever heard it, really. “Bit of a nutter, that one. She’s cooked up ways Harry’s gonna die loads of times. Once every year now, I reckon.”

“But you _are_ going to die,” Thea pointed out, darkly.

“Well--” Harry frowned.

“No, he’s not,” Cleo broke in, ducking her head down so she could look Thea in the eye. “And I’m not going to die. Weasley’s not going to die. _You’re_ not going to die.”

This, out of everything Cleo had ever said to the girl, upset her the most. “Yes, I am!” she exclaimed, tearing her body out of Cleo’s grasp. “That doesn’t work on me! You can’t lie like that! I _am_ going to die!”

Her sobs starting anew, Cleo lifted her hands, supplicant. “I know Trelawney can sound incredibly _convincing_ at times. But I promise you, it’s theatrics. She’s not a Seer. You’re not going to die.” Cleo’s eyes closed and she shook her head. “I shouldn’t have even brought you--”

“But _I am!_ ” the girl wept. “ _Everyone_ dies! Potter will die! Trelawney will die! _You_ will die! My _mums_ will die!” Running out of steam, Thea took in a shuddering breath, her voice broke in with a timid: “ _I’m_ going to die.”

What Thea meant slammed into her; what she’d been trying to say the entire time.

Well, that was a losing game, wasn’t it? Arguing against the existential? Arguing against a universal truth?

Cleo crept closer to her again. “You’re right,” she conceded. “But that won’t happen for a very long time, Thea. And _not_ how she said.”

The girl’s voice drooped with her posture. “You can’t know that.”

Harry tried to help. “It’s nothing to worry about right now; you know, there’s-- there’s Madame Pomfrey and other teachers to help out, and--”

Thea’s head shook. “I don’t know… how many times, I’ve seen my mum work on girls _my_ age… or younger,” she admitted, fingers curling apprehensively at her robes . “And you see them at the funeral, and you just _know_. That can be _me_ …”

“It _won’t_ be you,” Cleo told her. “Do you know how fast I’d be there if I even caught the smallest _hint_ of you being in danger? Nevermind the lengths your mothers would go. And I know they’re not here -- but _I am_. And I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that--”

“I am,” Cleo asserted, grave. “I promise that for as long as I exist in your life, I _will not_ allow anything to happen to you. And that if you’re ever scared of anything, _you can come to me_. I will protect you.”

“ _Everyone_ has someone who’d protect them,” Thea argued, voice quivering. “But sometimes, that’s not enough. Sometimes things just _happen_ , Cleo.”

It was a cynical position, but one that Cleo couldn’t argue against. To a degree, the girl was right. Not everything could be safeguarded. But there was nothing productive in worrying about it. When she glanced down at Thea’s hands, they were huddled close together, just at the girl’s left hip. Her fingers dug nervously into the crest of her wrist, leaving painful, crescent shaped-marks the more the girl absentmindedly squeezed.

Cleo reached up to grasp them, stilling the girl. “Okay.”

Thea blinked, nonplussed, two swollen tears crawling down the sides of her face.

“You’re going to die,” Cleo announced softly. “So, what do we do about that?”

“Nothing,” Thea whimpered, biting the inside of her cheek. “You can’t stop it.”

“Maybe not,” Cleo agreed. “But we can figure out why it scares you so much.”

Thea sniffed. “I don’t know--”

“Just think about it,” she urged, gentle. “When you think about how much it scares you, what’s the first thing that pops into your head?”

The girl hesitated, vacillating on one foot to the other as she stared at Cleo with a prominent frown. “I don’t know. Just--” She stopped, and Cleo could feel the girl’s hand squeezing hers, nervous. “I’m too young. There’s still things I-- things I want to do.”

“You know--” Weasley’s voice was strong and clear when it reached them, drawing their attention. “Last year, my dad nearly died. Got attacked by a magic creature. It was… _really_ serious. But y’know what he was on about the moment we got in to see him?” He paused, as if waiting for a response, before going on. “He’s reading the paper, wittering on about some bloke named Willy Widdershins getting arrested for something or other, all pleased as punch about his new mates he’s sharing a room with.”

The boy shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Here we were, losing sleep for worry about him, and we go in and he’s asking _us_ how we are, like nothing’s happened!”

Thea looked at him, scowling. “And?”

“Point being,” he emphasized, fixing her with a stare. “I thought he was mental at the time, but what’s he meant to do, mope about? Or would he much rather be spending time with his family, making the most out of those breaths he’s got left?”

Harry added, quiet, “Mr. Weasley always has been a very cheerful person.”

“He’s right, too,” Cleo affirmed. “All we can do is make sure our time is not wasted. So--”

Cleo suddenly stood to her full height, bringing the girl’s hands up with her, hoisted just above her head. “If there was anything -- I mean _anything_ \-- you could do right now, what would it be?”

Thea pulled her hands away, bringing them back down to her sides. “I don’t know,” she replied, flustered. “There’s not… It’s not like there’s a lot to do…”

Something dawned on Cleo, then. A spark of recognition flashed over her expression and she glanced over her shoulder, staring out onto the grounds that peeked in through one of the slats in the stone of the Tower. “What if we did something crazy?”

“What?”

Cleo’s head snapped back in Thea’s direction. “Do you trust me?”

Thea’s deliberation seemed only to be half a second. “Y-Yeah.”

Cleo grasped the girl’s hand and pulled her out of the alcove. “C’mon.”

“Hold on,” Thea objected, though she didn’t attempt to wriggle out of the older girl’s grasp. “What are we doing?”

“I told you,” Cleo replied, flashing the girl a slight smile as she began to lead her down toward the second flight of stairs. “Something crazy.”

Behind them, she heard Weasley’s voice bounce around the stone walls. “What’s she on about?”

Harry evidently didn’t reply, but, moments later, the redhead simply appeared close behind, directing his next question to Cleo herself, “Oi, what is it you’re up to, Croft?”

“Sorry, I’m not in the mood to get snitched on,” she called over her back, her steps pausing.

He looked positively affronted. “I’m no _snitch_ ,” Weasley insisted, disdainful.

“Well I can’t know that, can I?” Cleo countered. “What with Gryffindor’s reputation for _integrity._ ”

He snorted. “Oh, _right_. You’ve not met the twins, I take it.”

“I’m unacquainted with the Weasley clan,” Cleo pointed out, turning toward him. “But I don’t see any of you sneaking around much.”

“Well if you _saw_ us, then we wouldn’t be any good, now would we?” Weasley retorted, hands on his hips. “So what’s this, then?”

Cleo looked down at Thea, as if searching for permission, but the girl appeared just as bewildered as before.

It was stupid. Not very _cunning_ , when it came down to it, but...

“I want to take her to Hogsmeade,” Cleo explained. “So I figure, we get in plain clothes, and we sneak out across the grounds.”

“Oh _ho_ ,” Weasley replied. “Some good ol’ fashioned skiving off, is it?”

“But--” Thea fumbled. “Wouldn’t we get in trouble?”

“Maybe,” Cleo mused. “But, then it’s a story, isn’t it? And besides,” she tilted her head, staring down at the girl with a smile, “you said you wanted to show me where Saturn was, didn’t you?”

Thea’s expression crumpled up. “What’s that got to do with--”  
  
“If you think the Astronomy Tower has a good view of the stars,” Cleo told her, “just wait until you see the plateau beneath the Shrieking Shack.”

“Actually,” Harry cut in, then, having evidently decided to approach them. “You don’t even really have to properly sneak out to get to Hogsmeade.”

Cleo squinted at him. “How d’you mean?”

He and his friend exchanged a look before he continued, “There’s secret tunnels within Hogwarts that lead directly there. We can show you one?”

“You’d do that?”

Weasley shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting to the side. “It’s not a big deal; just don’t tell anyone we told you.”

“You sure you can trust a Slytherin not to?” she prodded, perhaps a bit unwisely.

He glared at her, then. “Dunno, can I?”

Harry made a quelling gesture between them. “It’s fine. If we get in trouble, so do you. And I think we’d all rather stay detention-free, right?”

Cleo shook her head. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

He looked between them all, soaking up the quiet for a moment before he said, conspiratorial, “So? Shall we go?”

Weasley crossed his arms, mumbling an agreement.

“Plain clothes is still a good idea,” Cleo pointed out. “So, we should meet somewhere.”

Harry nodded once, instructing, “By the Whomping Willow, in fifteen minutes.”

“What? The Whomping Willow?” Thea balked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Weasley’s grimace was sympathetic. “Yeah, very. But it’ll be worth it.”

Looking at the two boys, their eyes seemed to be shining at the prospect of unsanctioned adventure. For what it was worth, once the shock had worn off, Thea appeared quite excited too, but, despite it all being her idea, Cleo couldn’t help but notice the specter of dread pressing, heavy and oppressive, against her shoulders.

When they finally arrived at Cleo’s favorite stargazing spot, the landscape had fallen to deep purples and blues, the scant light at their backs from Hogsmeade obscured by foliage. She could hardly believe they had passed the whole of the day away, taking Thea around to virtually everything there was to see in the village.

Weasley was huffing and puffing at Harry’s side, still carrying the spoils from their excursion, parcels from Honeydukes, Zonkos, Tomes and Scrolls, Spintwitches, Gladrags, Dominic Maestro’s, and even some takeaway from the Three Broomsticks… It was an insane amount of things for any one person to transport, but Weasley had insisted on hefting Thea’s in addition to his own, and almost all of it had been purchased by Harry, though he’d bought absolutely nothing for himself. A strange pair, those two.

“I’ve er, never been this far out,” Harry remarked, gazing out across the landscape. “Everyone’s been around the Shrieking Shack, but I never thought to go… _past_ it.”

“Because there’s nothing around for ages,” his friend pointed out.

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Cleo informed them, her head tilted toward the sky. “Makes it easier to see what’s up there.”

Weasley lifted his head to squint above, but Harry was surveying the landscape. “The grass might still be wet from that rain yesterday.”

“Nothing a drying charm can’t fix,” Thea pointed out, her eyes glued to the canopy of stars above.

At that, Harry looked alarmed. “But we’re still underage--!”

Cleo shrugged. “I’m not.”

Weasley gave his friend a strange look. “She already got us out of the Shrieking Shack with magic, Harry.”

“Oh.” The boy frowned. “Sorry, guess I… wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Well,” Cleo breathed, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Glad to know I don’t come off as an old hag quite _yet_.”

Harry merely hummed in acknowledgement, while Weasley awkwardly tried to balance his myriad of parcels on one arm, evidently to stretch out his shoulder. Cleo, not wasting time, pulled her wand from her jean pocket and began to delineate a large patch of grass in a similar way she had learned during her detentions with Professor Tenenbaum, muttering a soft drying charm all the while.

As the three of them settled, Thea remained where she was standing, her eyes planing across the night time sky as twilight began to seep from the corners of the horizon.

Cleo leaned back on her arms. “Well?”

Thea barely acknowledged her with a soft: “Huh?”

“Show me where Saturn is.”

Thea tossed her head over her shoulder, forehead wrinkling. “Already?”

“Well, it’s why we’re here!” Cleo laughed. “Thought you could dazzle us with your vast array of knowledge about the universe.”

“Yeah, we deserve a good dazzle after a hard day’s work,” Weasley yawned, flopping onto his back with a thud while Harry rested his arms on his bent knees.

“Well,” Thea hummed, her body lifting as she stood on her toes. “It’s not going to be as impressive without a telescope, but…” Cleo watched as the girl peered into the collection of stars, her teeth caught on her bottom lip in thought. It took a few moments, but the girl pointed westward, her finger hooking on a small cluster of darkness as she took a step back. “There.”

Cleo squinted. “Where?”

Her pointing grew more earnest. “ _There._ ”

Weasley huffed. “Well, my guess was way off.”

“No wonder we’re not in N.E.W.T. Astronomy,” Harry remarked, wry.

“Still can’t see it,” Cleo remarked, straining her eyes.

“It’s the dim looking star,” Thea explained. “She’s not as bright this time of year.”

Weasley turned to look at her, considering. “Maybe you could find it on your new scarf.”

Thea looked down at the cloth hanging loosely around her neck, dimly illuminating her face as the embroidered stars glimmered in a pool of navy blue. “It’s a drawing, though,” she said. “Not the same as looking at her for real.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. Should’ve got a telescope while we were out.”

Harry adjusted his glasses, staring upward. “Don’t think you’d be able to carry much more, Ron.”

“I could’ve,” Cleo chimed in, breezy. “Still can carry some of those packages on the way back, y’know.”

“I’ve got it,” he grumbled, not budging from his earlier convictions.

Cleo rolled her eyes, returning her attention to Thea. “Don’t get too comfy. I might start quizzing you on constellations.”

The girl snorted. “Child’s play.”

“How am I supposed to have any fun if I can’t even make you break a sweat?” Cleo teased. “So, little genius, can you tell me where Jupiter is?”

Without hesitation, Thea replied: “I can’t.”

“Hah--!”

“‘Cause Jupiter isn’t visible this time of night,” she interjected, cocksure. “Her orbit has her above the horizon in the early evening at this point of the year. We missed her.”

“You know a lot about it, for a first year,” Harry commented with a sidelong glance.

“I just really love space,” Thea admitted, sounding more enthralled than Cleo had ever heard.

“Glad _you_ like it,” Weasley said to her, turning to lean on his side, “but me? I don’t see the appeal. It’s just loads of nothing and then some tiny lights so far away you can barely see them.”

Thea’s body turned in a motion so jilted and earnest that Cleo was afraid she’d topple over. “That’s not true at all! There’s so much _substance_ to our universe, our galaxy, even our little solar system! It’s so _massive_ that you can feel _woozy_ just trying to wrap your head around it, not to mention how it just goes on _infinitely_ , continually _expanding_ since the very beginning of time itself--”

“Look at you, on about the beginning of time, and _infinity_ ,” he said, his tone laced with trepidation as he gazed up at the sky.

“Think Ron’s more suited to things like chess,” Harry saw fit to comment. “Where you can see all the pieces, know exactly where you stand.”

His friend grimaced. “Don’t make me sound like some daft muppet!”

Harry held up his hands in surrender, and the two of them seemed to achieve an unspoken understanding, since Weasley let go of his indignation a moment later.

“I don’t know,” Thea murmured, her attention going skyward once more. “I think… I _honestly_ think that there’s no better way to know where you stand when you look up there and you realize that every little dot in the sky is a star system of its own, with its own planets orbiting about it, so numerous that you can’t even begin to count them and you just… _know_ that you’re a small part of something vast and… and…”

“Unfathomable,” Cleo broke in with quiet reverence, her chin perched upon her knee as she observed the girl with the barest hint of a smile.

“Yeah,” Thea sighed, beaming as she cradled the back of her head with her hands. “Yeah.”

From his spot on the ground, Weasley shrugged, commenting, “Mmm… no. Still not my cuppa.”

“Shows what _you_ know,” Thea replied, a bit snotty.

“Oi! _Rude_ ,” he shot back, though his tone entirely lacked any bite.

Thea wasn’t particularly bothered, her mind elsewhere. After a time, she shifted onto her heels, tugging her robes closer around her small frame. Then, with a furrowed brow, she remarked, “When I think about it, I get kind of jealous, I guess.”

“Of what?” Cleo asked.

“Missing the space race,” she answered. “Like, all the times we sent people to the moon and stuff.”

Weasley about choked. “ _What?_ Is that some kind of Muggle phrase I don’t know?” This question he directed at Harry, who shrugged.

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

“No, we actually sent people to the moon,” Cleo told him, tilting her head.

This seemed only to confuse the boy further. “Whatever _for?_ ”

Thea clasped her hands behind her back. “Politics.”

The redhead squinted at her, forehead wrinkling. “So you expect me to believe there’s just some blokes mucking about on the moon right now, nice as you please?”

“They didn’t stay,” Thea replied, pursing her lips. “They returned a bunch of times, but only six of the Apollo missions involved landing and walking on the moon.”

Harry chimed in, then. “What’s politics got to do with it, then?”

The first year scratched her head, her sheepish smile breaking through the dusk. “So, after World War II, the Soviets and the Americans really loathed each other, and their fight got even worse when the Soviets launched this satellite called Sputnik. It was like… the first thing Muggles ever made that was sent into space. So, the Americans got scared, thinking the Soviets would be able to have a whole army up in space and--”

“Nope, can’t make heads or tails of anything you just said,” Weasley informed her, turning in the direction of Cleo and Harry as if pleading for help.

Taking pity on him, Harry said, “I mean, I don’t see how people going to the moon is such a shock to you, considering magical people do all sorts of impossible things every day.”

His friend’s nose scrunched as he replied, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Most people aren’t used to magic,” Cleo told him, matter-of-fact. “I mean, it’s a commodity in the non-magical world. Magicians are practically celebrities, and they’re only utilizing illusionary tricks to pull off what they do. They can make a coin disappear from their hand, but you know that they’ve only moved it to somewhere you can’t see it. Wizards can _actually_ disappear that coin. Lots of people would consider that impossible.”

“Muggles are a bit backwards, if you ask me,” Weasley saw fit to point out.

Harry shot the other boy a look. “You remember that Croft’s parents are Muggles, yeah?”

“I’m not saying--” He cut himself off as he sat up, grunting as he went. “All I meant was, it’s a mite off for Muggles to regularly swan off to the moon for teatime, but these ‘magicians’ still only pretend they have magic!”

“Well, I mean, what else can we do?” Cleo replied, her words riding on a chuckle. “I guess science is as close to magic as we can get, but--”

“ _You_ can do magic though, Cleo,” was Thea’s soft reply, her gaze at her rather pointed and bewildered.

Cleo’s lips slanted. “You know what I mean.”

“There’s plenty of Muggles who don’t really care about any of that stuff,” Harry remarked, chin resting atop his forearms. “The Dursleys never mentioned people going to the moon.”

“Well, _they’re_ as backward as it gets,” Weasley countered, voice going hard.

Harry shrugged, expression suddenly gone odd. “At any rate, I guess we can assume there haven’t been any wizards to the moon, then?”

His friend shook his head. “Nope. Though I’m sure some crazy old hermit somewhere has wanted to try it out.”

“ _I_ want to do it,” Thea stated very confidently, glancing between the three of them. “So I’ll be the first witch in space.”

Weasley’s eyebrows raised, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Yeah?”

“Does Britain even have a space program?” Cleo asked, sitting up again.

“Yeah,” Thea murmured. “Not as big as America’s, but--” the girl paused, her head tilting upward.

“But?” Cleo prompted.

The girl stood there in a few silent moments of deliberation. “Hm,” she hummed, letting out a soft exhale from her nose. “I might have to move to America.”

“Ugh, don’t do that,” Weasley groaned.

“America’s not so bad,” Cleo said. “It’s where my mum is from.”

“Well, Percy was always on about--” He stopped talking, letting the rest of his air rush out of him.

Curious, she turned her gaze to Harry for an explanation, but he instead changed the subject. “I didn’t know your mum was American.”

She knew a hint when she saw one. Touchy subject. Right then. “Yeah. Born, raised, run aground there. When she needed a vast change of scenery, she ended up in England. She met my dad, and the rest is history.”

“Does she miss it?” he inquired.

Her stomach did a somersault. “Don’t think so,” she answered, a bit guarded. “I can’t be sure, though. Hard to know with her.”

“Hm.” Harry’s eyes drifted back toward the horizon. “I’ve never really been anywhere outside of Britain.”

By then, Weasley was recovered. “Egypt was nice and all, but I prefer it here honestly.”

“I get that,” Cleo agreed, wrapping her arms around her pulled up knees. “I’m a bit of a homebody, too.”

“Some of my family’s scattered about,” he replied, laying on his back once more. “Got a brother in Romania, even.”

“That’s far,” commented Thea, who had drifted down to the ground, her legs splayed out in front of her.

“Mum’s about bit her nails to the quick worrying when he’ll lose an arm or what have you,” Weasley snorted. Cleo and Thea shared a bemused look before he seemed to realize there was crucial context missing from his statement. “Oh-- he uh, works with dragons.”

“Well _that’s_ certainly an occupation,” Cleo remarked, a bit taken aback. “So, how does one go about figuring out they want to work with dragons?”

“Not sure everything that went into it,” he admitted, scratching the side of his nose. “I know Dad took him to some kind of festival, and that's where he saw one for the first time, but... Charlie's seven years older, so he graduated Hogwarts just before I came in.”

“I always wished I had a brother or sister,” Thea chimed in, sounding wistful. Her voice held the thrum as if she had intended to say a great deal more, but her silence forced itself on her, lumbering and indelicate.

Cleo looked the girl over, quick to fill in the quiet: “Well, I’ll be your older sister, then.”

Thea rolled her eyes. “Oh _jeez_ \--”

“And as your older sister, my first act will be to ask you,” Cleo drew herself up with exaggerated prowess, “are you doing home schooling right now?”

The girl seemed slightly taken aback by this. “Uh, no.”

“Well, my little STEM sibling, you might want to get on that.”

Thea glanced down into her lap, pensive. “Oh. You know, I didn’t really think about that…”

Weasley snorted. “What, more school? Don’t have enough of it already?”

Cleo addressed him, calm. “Well, it becomes necessary when you…” She paused, redirecting her attention to the girl. “You want to be an astronaut, right? Or astrophysicist? Something like that?”

Thea’s nod was sharp.

“So, you’re going to need to keep up with your non-magical schooling,” Cleo informed her. “Like how I did -- spent my summers doing coursework from primary school to secondary.”

This was a bit much for the redhead. “School _year-round?_ Are you mental?”

“Was it hard?” Thea asked, ignoring Weasley’s complaint.

“Sometimes, I suppose?” Cleo answered, head canted. “It can get overwhelming if you don’t keep to a strict schedule and skip assignments. For me, at least, it was relatively manageable.”

Thea appeared slightly put off by this. “I’m _wretched_ at time management,” she complained.

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Cleo gingerly asserted, her smile sweeping across her face.

“What do you mean?”

Cleo leaned her torso against her legs. “Where do you live?”

“Southampton,” Thea answered, uncertain.

“Two hour train ride, not too bad,” Cleo mused. “I’d be happy to come help tutor you through the hard parts.”

Thea stared at her. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’ve been through it before,” Cleo explained. “I know how frustrating it can be. I’d be happy to help. I could even bring Gabriel, if you want to meet him and if it’s alright with your parents.”

A smile lit up the girl’s face. “Oh, yeah! That’d be fun. You don’t think he’d be bored, watching you help me study?”

Cleo’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’d like to instill that boy with a proper admiration for learning.”

Thea giggled. “Like you?”

She smirked. “Of course.”

“Guess you’ll have the time for all that without Hogwarts clogging your schedule,” Weasley commented, his tone neutral as he stretched his shoulder again.

A jolt of unease shot up her spine as her head snapped to him. What on _earth_ would possess him to say something like that?

Thea’s response was nothing more than a soft, bewildered laugh before she asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Weasley was horrendously tight lipped in light of _that_. And he had the gall to stare at her, completely dense. She could’ve throttled him.

“Cleo?” Thea urged, growing anxious from the pervasive silence.

She looked down, pressing her lips together.

The girl sat up straighter. “What does he mean by that, Cleo?”

Her pause was prolonged even further as she grappled with how to even begin addressing this. Her first word betrayed her completely. “Listen--”

“Oh my _God,_ ” the girl gasped, her voice strained.

Cleo leaned forward, frowning. “Thea--”

But by then, the girl had rose and begun stomping back in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. Cleo scrambled to her feet.

 _Now_  Weasley managed to find his voice, if only to thickly question, “What’s going on?”

“The fuck do you think?” Cleo snapped, brushing the grass stains off her skirt. “Good bloody work there, Weasley.”

He turned redder than his hair, his glare at the ready, although his retort was not exactly polished. “Sod off! I didn’t do anything!”

“Sure,” she shot back, virulent. Her steps carried her briskly in the direction that Thea had disappeared to, air burning in her lungs.

Maybe she was being unreasonable. Maybe there wasn’t any precedent for him to take a lion’s share of the blame. But all the same, this _sucked_.

She caught sight of a wisp of wiry hair just over a grassy knoll and hastened her steps, calling out into the darkness: “Thea, wait!”

She was met with silence, the girl’s steps continuing at a stalwart pace. Cleo sighed loudly.

“Thea, please.”

Nothing.

Then, just as she came into a slow trot at the first year’s side, she tried, “Thea, really. I’m so sorry.”

 _That_ invoked something in the girl, though not what Cleo expected. The girl’s expression bunched up, furious. “Do you even know what you’re sorry _for?_ ”

“That I have to go,” Cleo attempted, her tone careful and mild. “I know it hurts. But it’s not as if you’ll never see me again, you know? I’m not going to shut you out--”

“You’re so--” Thea’s voice halted with a harsh, frustrated yelp. “You know you’re really dumb sometimes, right?”

Cleo allowed for that slight with a good humored smile, leaning down slightly in hopes to catch Thea’s gaze. “Yes, I do.”

“I’m not _playing,_ ” Thea snapped, not having it. “Take me seriously, or don’t talk to me. I don’t want to be treated like a _kid_.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you.”

“Then what do you call not telling me?” the girl shoved her with this accusation, her breath hitching in her throat. “What do you call forcing me to hear it from some complete bloody stranger?”

“Disrespect,” Cleo offered. “I should have told you.”

“Yes, you _should have_ ,” Thea emphasized. “But you didn’t.”

“Would it matter if you knew why I didn’t?”

Thea’s legs picked up pace again as she spat, agitated, “ _No._ ”

Cleo’s long strides made it rather easy to keep up with her. “I was scared, Thea.”

“ _Scared,_ ” the girl mocked, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Yes, Thea, scared,” Cleo insisted. “I get scared sometimes, too.”

The girl stopped rather suddenly, making Cleo waver and stutter to a halt. “You’re an adult,” Thea pointed out rather coldly. “You don’t _get_ to be scared.”

For the first time, Cleo felt herself dangerously close to losing her temper with the girl. “That’s _completely_ unreasonable, Thea.”

“What’s _unreasonable_ is what you’re doing!” the first year shouted.

“What am I doing?”

“Giving up!”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. If _anything,_ I thought _that_ would be something you’d understand,” Cleo pointed out, perhaps a bit unfairly.

By Thea’s rapid shift in demeanor, Cleo could tell she didn’t appreciate it. Her shoulders tensed, face tightened, the pallor around her eyes and cheeks flushing a deep crimson. Cleo felt the guilt like a punch to the gut.

“Shit,” she whispered, harsh. “I’m sorry--”

“ _Stuff_ your apologies up your arse!” the girl exclaimed, her entire face straining as if she were attempting to hold back what Cleo could see was coming: Her eyes had gone glassy, and the redness had permeated toward her nose.

This was getting out of hand. Fast.

“That wasn’t good of me, I know,” Cleo attempted to smooth over. “But--”

“How can you think of me like that?” The girl fiercely interrupted, her voice stumbling so much that Cleo felt her heart sink. “Scared? Because of what? What would I do? Quibble and hate you and treat you like rubbish because I have to share you with your son? With your family? That I’m so selfish that I’d throw a tantrum? I bet this confirms it now, huh? All the bad things you thought of me? That kept you from telling me?”

“No,” Cleo said softly, tenderly, as she lowered herself to Thea’s height. “I didn’t--”

“Stand up!” Thea screamed, taking a step back. Her hands went up to the sides of her face, as if she felt the rush of something triumphant and frightening. “Stop doing that! I hate it!”

Cleo immediately stood up, her hands held up, contrite and pleading. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry!” the girl shrieked. “Just stop _doing this_ \--” Thea’s face faded as she turned her back on Cleo, shoulders shaking with heavy breaths. Watching her, Cleo knew that this went far beyond what was happening _now_. She recognized it. The girl was torn between two places, fighting for balance.

All Cleo could do was stand there, waiting, watching her breathe. In a moment, the girl seemed to find herself again.

“Sorry.” Thea’s words were clipped, still drenched with the tears the girl clearly didn’t want her to see.

“Please don’t be,” Cleo entreated, unsure how to position herself. “I understand.”

“Do you,” the words collapsed from her, deadpan.

Attempting another track, Cleo rounded the girl from the side, frowning. “If something else is going on,” she began, mild and reassuring, “you can talk to me.”

Thea’s head turned away from her in what appeared to be instinct. Her answer was nothing but a redirection. “So that’s it, then?”

“I know you think I’m giving up, Thea, but--”

“You _are_ giving up,” she insisted, her words honey-thick, swollen with implication.

“I realized that what I _want_ and what’s _good_ for my family are two entirely separate things.”

“What’s good for your family?” Thea questioned, still staunchly refusing to look at her.

“Being absent from my son’s life isn’t good for him,” Cleo explained, growing emotional herself. She paused and cleared her throat before continuing. “I have to _be_ his mother. If that means attending university in the non-magical world and comporting myself there, then I’ll do it.”

“Won’t you have to be away for uni, too?” Thea challenged.  “Aberdeen is in Scotland, too.”

“I can bring him with me--”

“And live where?” the girl questioned, rapid fire. “Where will you get work? How are you going to balance doing school, being a mum, and working? What about--”

“Thea,” Cleo broke in. “I’ll figure it out. I’m hardly the first single mother to manage such a thing. And I’m not alone. I have help.”

“You just don’t want to be here,” Thea accused.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cleo shot back, agitated.

It was then that Thea turned to face her, red faced and teary, earnest in a way that made Cleo feel uneasy. “You _deserve_ to be here. You know that, right?”

Cleo was at a loss for words. She struggled, watching as the girl’s eyes peered into hers, beseeching. Unsettled, Cleo’s arms barricaded her chest, a gesture so ridiculous and _defensive_ that she scowled. Defend herself from _what?_ This _child?_ “Thea...” she waffled, grimacing. “Of course I do.”

“ _Do_ you?” the girl underlined, sounding skeptical. “Because I wonder sometimes. You never act like it. It’s almost like you believe them.”

“Them?” she found herself questioning rather uselessly. It wasn’t hard to work out what the first year meant.

“Being here _means_ something,” Thea told her. “And if you can’t do it then… What does that say--” Thea hesitated. Her eyes slipped to the ground. “What does that mean for--”

“It’s not--” Cleo stammered, feeling her fingers fidget against her arm. “Thea, it has _nothing_ to do with that.”

“Then don’t give up,” Thea begged, stepping forward to grasp Cleo’s taut forearms. “ _Please_.”

Here it was. Thea’s last ditch effort. Her heartfelt plea. The one that she, no doubt, imagined would break through and make Cleo see _reason_. That would make Cleo realize that she was running away. That she had to be _brave_. It reminded Cleo of when they first met; the depth between them so vast that she couldn’t help but observe Thea’s conduct still held a twinge of the _cinematic_.

Though, perhaps that was cruel to think. Perhaps the girl was right; Cleo didn’t _show_ she took her seriously.

So, she had to try, didn’t she? Address her with a modicum of respect, reason with her like an adult?

This time, it wasn’t a word that betrayed her. Just the tone and distance of her voice. “Thea--”

The girl released her and stepped away, her expression hardening. “Nope.”

Cleo’s arms dropped to her sides, her frown growing prominent as she watched as the first year began to walk away again. “Listen to me--”

“I heard you,” Thea called back.

“I don’t think you did.”

“I _heard_ you,” Thea repeated, her steps not slowing. “We disagree. Let me be mad.”

Cleo began her pace anew, staring at the back of the girl’s head. “We’re not leaving it here.”

“You can’t _fix_ this!” Thea shouted, turning to face her fully.

“I should have talked to you -- _weeks_ ago. So let’s _talk_. Really talk. And I won’t--”

“Stop trying to _manage_ me!”

The girl’s shriek pierced the gloom, so sudden and fierce that it forced Cleo’s silence. They stood there at an impasse, the quiet filling in the gap, punctuated by the distant, muffled sound of Thea’s heaving breaths.

Then, when the tension had its fill of their deadlock, the girl straightened herself, looking Cleo dead in the eye.

“Let me be mad,” the small of her voice somehow managed to climb outward and reach her with a strength Cleo could hardly fathom. “Okay?”

Something clicked. Her head jerked into a nod. “Okay.”

And the girl, tight mouthed and tense, marched away, cloaked by the dark and crowned by the stars.

“Erm… Miss… Croft, was it? Did you have a moment?”

Was this going to be a thing, now? Being accosted by Gryffindors after Charms? Hermione Granger stood in the aisle, hands placed primly behind her back, strands of hair escaping from the clip at the side of her head, and an overflowing bag of books slung over her shoulder. Cleo turned to her, eyebrow raised. “Sure. What did you need?”

“I don’t think we’ve ever met properly,” the girl said, her tone frank, but polite. “Hermione Granger.” Her hand jutted out in front of her.

Cleo looked at it momentarily before reaching forward to shake it. “Right, I know who you are,” she returned. “You’re in a lot of my classes. Couldn’t miss you.”

Granger’s chin lifted, but it seemed more a thoughtless act of self-collection than anything. “Let me be clear: I come to speak to you as Harry’s friend, not as a Prefect or the top of our class.”

She certainly had moxie, there was no doubt about that. “Right.”

The girl placed her school bag on a nearby chair, clasping her hands before her in a neat, no-nonsense stance. “First off, I feel it pertinent to apologize for my friend’s behavior earlier this week. Harry told me about how…” Her face scrunched momentarily as she searched out an appropriate word. “... _reprehensible_ his conduct toward you was.”

“You don’t have to,” Cleo assured. “I understand where he’s coming from.”

This caught Granger off-guard. “That’s…” She frowned. “Well I don’t see _how_. You needn’t excuse him.”

“Gryffindor bravado is pretty easy to see through,” Cleo explained. “He’s very protective of Harry. I get it.”

“Be that as it may,” came her reply, her tone one of patience and formality. “I hope you understand that his behavior is not indicative of Gryffindor as a whole.”

“Just like Malfoy and his ilk’s behavior aren’t indicative of Slytherin as a whole?” Cleo parroted back.

Granger didn’t seem to have a ready answer to that, her gaze fixing in a far off corner of the room as her lips twisted in a manner that resembled a nervous tick. Gathering her thoughts, perhaps.

The silence dragged a touch too long than was comfortable for Cleo. “Presumably you had something you wanted to ask me?” she softly inquired.

“Yes-- sorry,” she rallied, adjusting her stance. “To, er… _preface_ … the boys told me you all went to Hogsmeade yesterday.”

“Ah,” Cleo sighed. “Right. I imagine they weren’t pleased with my outburst.”

The bushy-haired girl gave her a quizzical look. “Um, I can’t really say, since they didn’t mention anything of that sort.”

“Oh, then--” Cleo frowned, nonplussed. “What about the trip, exactly?”

“Well. Ron’s made a habit of skiving off, so it was hardly surprising for him not to be around, but Harry?” The girl drew in a breath. “When I didn’t see him at lunch, I thought he might have been caught up by something. And when he didn’t come to Charms -- and Ron wasn’t there either -- I was quite upset with them both, going off somewhere together and shirking their responsibilities. I was going to give them an earful at dinner… but they never came. And by that time I’d started to worry.”

“About?”

“About the fact that it was half seven, and no one had seen Harry at all since nine,” Granger informed her, grave. “I asked around some of our housemates, his Quidditch teammates… Even our friends in other Houses admitted that they hadn’t spotted him anywhere. I skipped my study group to look around the usual places, even visiting Hagrid to see if the boys had come to call--”

“I understand,” Cleo broke into her long winded explanation, holding her hands up. “So, what do you want to say to _me_ about it?”

At this, the girl’s tone became a touch more heated. “You say you understand, but I don’t think you do,” she stated. “And how can you? It’s difficult for even his closest friends to truly understand how precarious his situation is. When it reached twelve hours that I hadn’t seen or heard from them, I was forced to report his absence to Professor Dumbledore, who alerted all the teachers to search the castle and grounds.”

Near flabbergasted, Cleo didn’t have much time to consider her outburst until after it fumbled out of her: “Don’t you think that was a bit of an overreaction?”

By Granger’s expression alone, Cleo realized that this was, most definitely, the _wrong_ thing to say. “An overreaction?!” she echoed, each syllable pronounced with sharp clarity. “Harry has nearly been killed _every single year_ he’s been at Hogwarts!”

“Is everything all right, ladies?” Flitwick’s squeak traversed the room from where he sat at the podium, balanced on his usual stack of books. The classroom had completely emptied out by then.

Cleo looked over the girl before her once, careful, before addressing him. “Yes, Professor. Would you care for us to clear out?”

The little bobbin of a man looked between the two of him, prominent brow furrowed. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, polite but firm. “I have a class within the hour.”

Granger visibly reigned in her anger, her shoulders twitching downwards with her every revitalizing breath. “Of course, Professor,” she intoned, her voice remarkably even. She cast a glance at the man over her shoulder as she took hold of her bag. “Sorry to trouble you.”

There permeated between them a troubling air as they trudged into the hallway, Granger’s indignation hanging about her still. Granger was walking so quickly that she thought the girl would simply continue down the hall, cutting their communication short. Instead, she overtook Cleo’s pace in order to round on her, the motion so severe that her hair went a little wild. “I know you weren’t _here_ , so you can’t possibly know what it was like the last time Harry disappeared,” Granger prefaced, her anger evident. “He was only gone for an hour-- _one hour_ \-- but when, by some miracle, he returned, it was alongside a dead body.”

Cleo wasn’t sure what she could possibly say in response to that, harrowing a statement as it was. She couldn’t ascertain what she was supposed to do with that information either, other than possibly pity the boy further. With a frown, Cleo attempted to dive to the point: “Would you like for me to apologize?”

The girl’s arms folded; her answer ended up being another question. “Harry told me you have non-magic parents. Is that right?”

“Yes I do.”

“Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say-- Being close to Harry is a bit like shutting yourself in the trunk of a car, except you have no idea who is driving or where you are going at all.”

“Being close?” Cleo inquired, eyebrow raising.

Granger sighed. “To put it plainly, I don’t know what your intentions are, but Harry seems to have taken a liking to you. And the more time you spend around him, the more dangerous your situation will become.”

“I think you’re overstating the case,” Cleo objected. “We’re not friends, he certainly isn’t fond of me, and I’m only trying to help him figure out a way to get through Potions without Snape giving him such a hard time--”

“Funny you should mention him,” the girl commented, placing a hand on her hip, “since Harry went to some lengths to ensure that Snape not be told that you were involved in his disappearance yesterday. Said you had to present a proposal to him, and Harry didn’t want you to be punished on his behalf.”

… Shit. _Shit_.

Her hand went to hold the side of her face as she stared down at the floor, gobsmacked. “That kid…” she murmured, brow furrowing. Shit. It hadn’t even been his _idea_. “He didn’t have to do that--”

“-- But he _did_ , and that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Cleo’s head shook. “I won’t do it again,” she vowed. “Get him in trouble like that.”

Granger raised her eyebrows. “Let’s hope not. But honestly? I think you shouldn’t be around him at all.”

“I understand you think I’m a bad influence--”

“No,” she replied. “I’m saying this because the moment someone calls Harry a friend, they become a target.”

“I’m already a target,” Cleo countered, frowning. She gestured between them. “ _We’re_ already targets.”

The girl pursed her lips, disapproving. “Fine, but do you seriously want to put yourself in a worse situation than you already are?”

“What could possibly be worse?” she asked, head canting. “I’m marginalized, regardless who I associate with. Either I’m killed because I’m a Mudblood, or I’m killed because I’m a Mudblood who knows Harry Potter. At that juncture, the distinction doesn’t account for much.”

Granger’s expression was both skeptical and watchful. “Interesting opinion, coming from a Slytherin.”

“I thought we decided generalizations aren’t helpful?”

She waved a hand. “I’ve known plenty of Slytherins who weren’t categorically evil bigots,” the girl divulged, “but the majority still refuse to acknowledge the reality of an impending Second Wizarding War.”

“I think it’s hard for children to grasp that notion in general,” Cleo contended. “Especially privileged ones.”

“They ignore the suffering of others to preserve their worldview,” Granger said, voice hard. “It’s Fudge all over again. How many more books need to be burned for them to take notice? How many more Muggleborns have to die to compel them out of their cowardice?”

“This is why you don’t depend solely on the fleeting empathy of allies,” Cleo disclosed, shrugging. “You focus your time and effort forming a coalition with those who struggle alongside you. This is what we build communities around.”

Granger took in a breath, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “Well…” Here she paused, looking Cleo up and down before she continued. “That’s exactly what I’m already doing.”

“That’s great,” Cleo said, resting her head against the wall.

“And you?”

“I never claimed I was even remotely useful.”

She found herself on the receiving end of a condescending stare. “Well, why not? This fight involves you as much as anyone else.”

“No specific reason,” Cleo admitted. “Rarely has Hogwarts allowed an avenue for politics, much less in a way that was safe for people like us.”

“The days of Hogwarts’s blissful neutrality are over,” Granger informed her, brimming with confidence. “I intend to make sure of it.”

“How, exactly?”

“I’ve created a new organization, targeting the injustices inherent to those of us born without magical parents.” She tucked a few strands of wayward hair behind her ear, standing straighter. “All I need are voices who want to be heard.”

She certainly seemed confident, that was for sure. “Have you done something like this before?”

“Yes,” she said, though with a slanted delivery. “And also… no. I created an activist organization last year, but I received some… _backlash_ from certain small-minded individuals.”

“Backlash?”

With a short sigh, she expanded, “I founded the Society for Promotion of Elfish Welfare, which was meant to combat the forced enslavement of house elves, but wizards think that because the elves are _happy_ with their lives, that it’s okay, what they’re doing to them.”

“Well define ‘happy’,” Cleo objected, suddenly heated. “Because every time I’ve interacted with a house elf, they’re always in a state of panic and agitation--”

“ _Exactly!_ ” Granger let out, invigorated. “That’s what _I’ve_ always said, but here’s Ron on about how they don’t want help so I ought to give it up--!”

“What do they expect them to act like? We’re talking about generational _abuse_ , for God’s sake--”

“-- Not to mention the long history of internalized inadequacy, and their near fanatical devotion to their ‘masters’, where even the slightest deviation prompts self-harm as a cultural _necessity--_ ”

“-- as if this isn’t something that’s been conditioned? Like, what? Just because one has been abused to the point where they’re content with their slavery, we’re not allowed to call it an absolute evil--?”

“-- which it _is_ , honestly, with these creatures being stripped of their identities, separated entirely from whatever natural habitat they previously thrived in, to the point where the origins and heritage of house elves have been lost to time and indifference--”

“-- and we’re just supposed to act as if that’s an _acceptable consequence,_ as if these hierarchies aren’t completely imposed and are instead the result of natural order. I mean, have we forgotten what happened in America? What _Britain_ used to do? But all of a sudden because you dare to be an abolitionist for a non-human creature you’re unreasonable--”

“-- what’s _unreasonable_ is for wizards to assume that elves don’t want freedom when they hardly even know what that looks like --”

“-- there’s _nuance_. And what can they expect, when the concept of freedom comes hand in hand with the threat of bodily harm? With _death?_ I thought that was very plainly obvious to anyone just paying half a whit of attention to their material reality?”

“Did you know--” Granger huffed, obviously forgetting to breathe during her diatribe. “Did you know, it’s common practice for old Wizarding households to mount the heads of their previous house elves?”

“ _What?_ ” Cleo expelled in a harsh breath, scandalized. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am! I’ve seen it with my own eyes; it’s absolutely disgusting,” she told her, expression pained. “And this isn’t just something in the past, it’s _now_ \-- Wizards act as if it’s completely normal!”

“I can’t believe people don’t see how cruel that is,” Cleo gritted, appalled.

“Well, I mean, most people react like Harry,” Granger sighed. “They think it’s only ‘bad’ people who do this. And-- I mean, Hogwarts has elves, but they don’t-- you know. _Behead_ them. So they figure it’s alright so long as you give them a good home, where they aren’t outright abused.”

Cleo shook her head. “That’s…”

“Horrid?” she finished for her. “Yes. But it’s hard to get people to understand, or care, really. House elves are also a measure of status, so most ordinary wizards hardly see one the whole of their lives.”

“And your friends… they were really against this?” Cleo questioned, her arms dropping to her sides.

Granger frowned. “I mean… Harry’s mostly got quite a bit already on his mind. Can’t blame him for focusing on the war first. And Ron, erm. Think he just disliked my methods.”

“Your methods,” she repeated. “What about them were disagreeable?”

The girl sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You may think it _silly_ , but I knitted the elves hats and scarves, and left them about the common room.”

Hm. It was weird to admit, but Weasley might have had a point. It wasn’t the best strategy. “You need to come at it from the angle of providing them a safety net. Liberation is more than freedom -- it’s having the means to support the liberated. The house elves would need resources. A place to stay that’s safe. A means to rehabilitate their psychological state. Stuff like that. That way they’re not left to flounder when the panic sets in after they’re given freedom with no clue what to do with it. Alone, no less.”

Granger blinked, looking at Cleo as if she had two heads. “You… came up with all that just now? In about half a minute?”

“I’m repeating things I’ve heard from vastly smarter people on similar subjects,” she corrected her.

“Well, _I’ve_ read that sort of thing before too,” she mentioned. “I just didn’t think to apply it to this.”

“Outside perspective helps, I suppose.”

“But… you don’t think I’m mad?” Granger questioned, puzzled. “For wanting to free them when they don’t want to be free?”

“I think you understand the concept of the greater good,” Cleo told her. “And that, were the house elves in a better state of mind, were they healthy and not at the whims of abuse, they’d crave their freedom as well.”

The other girl was quiet for a moment, in contemplation. Then, nodding absentmindedly, as if having come to an agreement with herself, she addressed Cleo once more. “You should join my new organization,” she brazenly announced.

Taken aback at the abrupt nature of the invitation, Cleo frowned. “I would,” she prefaced, glancing away. “But--”

“No ‘buts’,” Granger interrupted her. “If you know the danger to Muggleborns, and you have some worthwhile ideas about how to lessen the suffering we all have to endure, then what’s stopping you?”

“The fact I might be withdrawing from the school soon,” Cleo informed her, point-blank.

At that, the girl let out a disbelieving chuckle. “What do you mean? It’s not even mid-term!”

“Yes, well, my educational plan was contingent on specific factors,” Cleo expounded. “I have a chance to secure the spot I need to continue forward, but if I fail, I’m returning home.”

“And what spot is that?”

“An advisory position under Professor Snape.”

She could see the moment the realization hit the girl. “Ah, the meeting Harry didn’t want to sabotage.”

Cleo visibly winced. “Yes, that one.”

There was a shrewd glint to Granger’s eye as she posed her next question. “So, you’re hinging your entire magical career on whether or not you impress Snape? Isn’t that a bit…?”

“Over the top?” Cleo filled in for her, casual. “Maybe. But there are factors outside the school I have to consider.”

“Your family, right?” the girl assumed. “But you must know that the more you contribute to better conditions here, the more your family will benefit from it.”

Cleo shook her head. “My son doesn’t. This decision to continue my magical education -- this was for me. I had other avenues of making a life for myself that didn’t involve abandoning my kid for the greater portion of two years. Hogwarts was my last shot of doing something important to me.” Her chest felt painfully tight. It was weird, how much she told this absolute stranger. Yet the words flowed from her, effortless… Perhaps because she had no other means to purge them. “One last act of selfishness, I guess.”

Granger’s answering look was troubled. “You talk as if it’s a foregone conclusion,” she observed quietly. “Have you already had the meeting with Snape, then?”

“This evening,” she admitted, crestfallen. “And I don’t have anything.”

“Oh.” The girl frowned. “I see.”

A solemn expression overcame Cleo’s features as she looked Granger over again. “So, y’know. It is what it is.”

“Is it?” Granger inquired, those two words sounding like a challenge. “Because it seems to me like this is less an act of fate, and more an act of self-defeat.”

“It’s hard to motivate when you begin to forget the reasons why something that mattered to you was important in the first place.”

“Well then,” the girl said, no-nonsense. “Let’s start at the beginning, and try to remember.”

“Don’t you have better things to do?” Cleo questioned, skeptical.

“ _No_ ,” she declared in a manner that indicated that she _was_ actually meant to be elsewhere. Granger was a horrible liar, but her next words were quite earnest. “I think my time is better spent here.”

“If I’m honest with you,” Cleo broached, peering at the girl suspiciously, “I haven’t really the slightest idea why you think that.”

Granger’s expression grew curious. “Well… I suppose you have your principles, and I have mine.”

“I distinctly remember this conversation starting with a drastically different tone,” she pointed out, albeit good humored.

Her lips curled in a small smile. “Let’s just say, any friend to the house elves is a friend of mine.”

Cleo doubted it was that simple. But, looking a gift horse in the mouth and all. “Well…” she muttered, shifting on the wall. “I’m not sure where to start with this conversation, anyway.”

“Seeing as you’re soliciting Professor Snape, can I assume you want to specialize in Potions?”

“For the most part, yes,” Cleo answered. “The ultimate goal is mediwizardry, where a recommendation from an accomplished and renowned Potions Master like Severus Snape can get you far.”

“Okay,” Granger mumbled, thinking, “so what project did you need his advising for?”

“That’s basically the problem,” Cleo broached, timid. “My ‘plans’ were much too broad. Nothing that can be accomplished within the next couple of school years.”

“Well, I mean, you could just develop a potion, right?”

“Not likely,” Cleo scoffed. “That sort of thing is reserved for… I don’t know, geniuses with an unlimited well of creativity to tap into.”

“I wouldn’t say _unlimited_ ,” Granger argued. “We’re talking about one potion, not the Fountain of Youth.”

“Still, it takes an amount of ingenuity I don’t possess.”

“I don’t believe that,” the girl said, setting a hand on her hip. “All you need is one little idea, and -- my mum always says ideas are like seeds. You plant them, care for them, watch them grow… and eventually, they’ll bear fragrance, fruit, or _frippery_.” Her smile caught the very end of the phrase.

It was contagious, she supposed, since Cleo found herself smiling too. “Maybe,” she mused. “I mean -- my goal… my _dream,_ I guess, is to bring the practice of gynecology and obstetrics to the Wizarding World. So… whatever potion I would engineer should revolve around that.”

“Oh!” Granger’s face lit up. “That’s _brilliant_ , actually! It’s such a broad subject, but I’ve read a lot about Wizarding Britain’s startling infant mortality rate, the lack of practical knowledge, the societal taboos surrounding childbearing in general--”

“Bit of an autodidact, aren’t you?” Cleo broke in, good natured.

The girl looked simultaneously proud and bashful. “I just like to read, is all,” she provided, brushing hair away from her eyes.

“I'm not judging,” Cleo assured her.

“Anyway, enough about me. Uhm… Let’s see, ideas…” Granger frowned, gaze scanning the ground. “Hm. What about menstrual health? Something to-- well, I suppose wizards have pain-reducing potions already…”

Her brow furrowed quite severely with the force of her effort. “Eh… Perhaps something similar to birth control? In Potion form?”

Cleo twisted her lips, pensive. “I suppose that would be easy enough -- find a formulation and group of ingredients that would keep the levels of progesterone and estrogen high but… I don’t know if something like that would impress Snape or not. He’s not much for ‘simple’.”

“You're probably right,” Granger conceded. “So, something a bit flashier. Any disorders that affect pregnant women only?”

“Preeclampsia,” Cleo blurted out, automatic. Her own doubts caught up with her quickly, as she qualified, “A bit tricky, though.”

The other girl clasped her hands together. “Tricky?”

“Muggles haven’t cured it either,” she explained. “So, it’d be an undertaking.”

This took the girl aback. “Really? Do they know what causes it?”

“No.” Cleo shook her head. “They just know what the signs are before eclampsia hits.”

“Hence the ‘pre’ bit,” Granger surmised. “So, if you were to develop a potion for this, you’d be combating something mysterious. Lots of testing involved, I imagine.”

“Clinical trials would be more than difficult,” she admitted, sighing. “I’d still need to have a Muggle medical background in order to be able to accurately diagnose any witch that could possibly _have_ it, so… this would be an incredibly long term project. Years. Decades, even.”

“Well, I should think so,” the girl replied, loosely folding her arms before her. “Developmental potion research very often is the work of years. I mean-- just look at the Wolfsbane Potion. Twenty-four years it took, though perhaps the length of it was because it was independently funded -- not to mention _secretive…_ ”

“Comforting,” Cleo intoned, rubbing the back of her neck, before a self-effacing laugh spilled from her lungs.

Granger’s frown was anxious. “That’s-- that’s not to say it isn’t _possible_ ,” she hurried to say. “I mean, just think about it: Professor Snape’s gone out of his way to teach us _why_ potions work, instead of just having us copy recipes directly. Though, uhm… Did you ever have those essays he assigned, about primary, secondary, and tertiary ingredient trees?”

Cleo’s expression screwed up, as if to say _of course I have_ , but there was no way for the girl to know that, was there? Tamping down her attitude, she forced a smile. “Yes, I did.”

“Oh, good,” the girl remarked, so unfazed that she must not have noticed, “But I mean, it’s all about finding a good base, and then stemming new abilities or fixing the shortcomings of the primary ingredient, right? So, you know, if you were to begin making a potion of this nature, what do you suppose your primary ingredient might be?”

“Off the top of my head?” she questioned, pensive. Her next words flowed from her, stream of conscious: “Well… Preeclampsia’s biggest indicator is high blood pressure… probably. It’s where they _start_ , anyway. And if you start there, I suppose you have to…”

She bit her lip. Well, there was one answer she knew of, at the risk of sounding ridiculous.

“Aconite,” she pronounced, looking Granger in the eye again.

The other girl’s gaze was curious as she turned her head, considering. “Aconite?”

“It’s used in Wolfsbane,” Cleo pointed out. “And I don’t believe it’s for that whole ‘poisoning the wolf’ reason. Too nebulous and _romantic._ ”

Granger shrugged. “Hard to say; I’m not sure exactly how that potion’s formulation works out, even after studying it. Funny thing about aconite, though-- Did you know it’s got a heap of nicknames, including ‘women’s bane’?”

“I didn’t.”

“Wizards evidently ascribe to the ancient belief that women are more susceptible to the poison,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirking.

Cleo pursed her lips. “Strange. Was there any real basis for this observation, or…?”

“There is a basis, but it’s up for interpretation how ‘real’ that basis is,” Granger said. “Those notions were founded on mythological principles. There’s even an origin story for aconite that suggests that ‘rock-flowers’ were created from errant foam which came out of Cerberus’ mouths as it was dragged from the underworld.”

“As much as I would _really_ love to unpack that,” Cleo stated, sounding genuinely regretful. “We’re venturing a bit from the point.”

“Oh-- right, sorry--” The girl frowned.

“Don’t be,” Cleo assured her. “Really. It’s interesting. Just--” She hesitated, brow furrowing before she shook her head. “I know Aconite has properties that lower blood pressure. There are Muggles that even use it in diluted doses as an alternative form of medication. But even outside the problem of clinical trials, I can’t be certain that any secondary or tertiary ingredients could alter aconite’s properties enough to be efficacious. I’m working off a guess, as well. High blood pressure is a strong _indicator_ , but it’s not a cause. _That_ could be anything. It’s like trying to chase a ghost.”

Granger sighed. “Where does that leave you, then?”

Cleo tossed her head side to side, thoughtful, before she lifted her shoulders in an expression of nonchalance. “Where I hedge my bets and do a contraception potion.”

“Do you suppose that will be enough? For Professor Snape, I mean?”

“No one appears to have done it, or attempted to,” Cleo reasoned. “So I imagine it’s at least _something_.”

“How long have you got until you have to present it?” Granger asked.

At that, Cleo burst into laughter. “What time is it?”

Perplexed, the girl replied slowly, “Half three, maybe a bit later?”

“Three and a half hours, then.”

“So.” There was an uncertainty to her tone. “I mean, if you want, I could help you put a plan together? You know, _before_.”

“You don’t have class?”

There was a bit of pain in her expression as she said, “If it will enable you to join E.A.R.W.I.G., then I suppose it’s worth missing some History of Magic.”

Cleo squinted. “Earwig?”

The clangor of students passing by their spot -- the noise of shuffling feet, loud conversation, and girlish titters -- interrupted them momentarily. Granger’s brows lowered as she looked on, impatience and distaste in her expression, clearly unwilling to wait for them to clear out before saying what she had to say.

“It’s my new organization,” Granger explained, voice raised and head held high. “The Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group.”

Cleo, on the other hand, _did_ wait until the last student filed into the Charms classroom to reply. “That’s cute, actually. But, uhm. Don’t worry about bribing me. It’s something I’d join anyway. Go to your class.”

The girl gave her a strange look. “It’s not a bribe.” She seemed put-off by the implication. “It’s just… People like you are exactly what my organization is for, isn’t it? How could I call myself its leader if I didn’t help you?”

“People like _us_ ,” Cleo emphasized, pulling her book bag strap higher on her shoulder, “are equally understanding that other things take priority sometimes. You’ve made it clear how you feel about skiving off class. I’ll be fine; I’ll do my due diligence. You’ll have your member.”

Granger fretted. “Are you _sure?_  I really don’t mind.”

“More than sure,” Cleo promised. “Really. You’ve been a huge help, Miss Granger.”

“Hermione,” the girl corrected her, calmly shifting a tuft of her hair behind her shoulder.

Her head sunk into a slight nod as she stepped away from the wall. “Cleo.”

Hermione’s answering smile was warm. “Good luck, Cleo.”

The laugh she expressed was half hearted and nervous as she began to walk away, announcing over her shoulder. “Going to need it, Hermione.”

Snape’s office door was open when she arrived, but, from the voices emanating from inside, it seemed he was with someone else. Hesitating, and wondering if she should wait outside the classroom itself, Cleo’s ears caught on a familiar, unpleasant voice.

“It was Urquhart’s fault!” Malfoy was insisting, his voice raised near to hysteria. “Ask anyone there, and they’ll tell you! _He_ attacked _me!_ ”

“Do you think me a fool, Draco?” Snape replied, voice smooth. “Three fights in as many weeks? A dozen since school began? Each of them sending you to the Hospital Wing? You are barely standing even now.”

“Please, sir, I _need_ the nights off.”

“Do you.” He sounded unconvinced.

“ _Yes_ ,” Malfoy insisted.

There was a silence, one Cleo recognized intimately. _Especially_ when the boy’s hesitant voice broke through to say, “I _do_ , Severus! To--” He paused. “To do _homework!_ ”

“Your hesitation suggests otherwise.”

“It’s my N.E.W.T. year!” The boy doubled down. “You can’t expect me to do well, and then cut into my study time--”

“I rather think it’s your frequent trips to the Hospital Wing which are ‘cutting into your study time’,” the professor echoed back, derisive.

Malfoy’s voice cracked when he burst out with, “I’ve been feeling ill constantly, Severus! Every day, these horrid pains in my chest and-- and sometimes I feel like I can’t even _breathe--_!”

Snape’s reply was deeply unsympathetic. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before causing a scene. Or _several_ of them, as the case may be. How is it you expect to procure anyone’s good will with outlandish behavior like this?”

“I don’t _care_ what anyone thinks!” the boy spat, breathing heavily. “I just can’t have detention! _I can’t!_ ”

There was an audible scoff before the professor dismissed, “Yes, you have made your objection on that point patently clear.”

“Then perhaps you could consider _listening_ to me!”

“I believe that is what I am presently doing.”

“Could have fooled me,” Malfoy sneered. “Considering your predisposition to be unrelentingly obstinate, Severus--!”

“Professor,” he snapped. “You have taken quite enough liberties already.”

“ _Professor_ ,” the boy corrected himself, sneering.

He must have been satisfied enough with that, since he continued, “If you are this adamant to evade detention, perhaps you should supply an acceptable _reason_.”

Malfoy huffed a strangled laugh. “Oh, _now_ you care to know? Fascinating.”

“Draco…” His tone was barely patient, edged with malice.

“Either help me or not!” Malfoy demanded, and Cleo could see the back of his blond head protruding through the open door. “I don’t even know why I’m asking, since you’re a heartless _traitor--_ ”

“If you think I can be guilted, you are sorely mistaken,” Snape declared, firm. “You will serve your detentions with grace, or further consequences--”

“ _Grace?!_ ” There was a harsh bang, as if Malfoy had kicked something. “Don’t you dare threaten me--!”

“You are dismissed,” the professor cut him off abruptly. “Send Miss Croft in on your way out.”

Shit. Was he serious? Malfoy’s form came careening through the office threshold, his glare pinpointing her with weaponized hatred. “ _You_ ,” he seethed, disdain written in every line of his face. However, in addition to his contempt, there were also signs of disarray which were not so familiar. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and she could see that he was even more pale than usual, a sheen of sweat laid across his forehead.

Still, she had no compassion to muster for the boy, especially when he continued speaking. “Eavesdropping, is it now, _Croft?_ Didn’t your filthy mother teach you manners?”

It didn’t seem wise to rile him up. “I wasn’t--”

Snape’s voice, and his physical presence at the door, interrupted. “I will not have my time _wasted_.”

She stood aside, waiting for the boy to pass her. Incensed, Malfoy kept his eye trained on her as he moved. Just as he reached parallel with her, he jabbed his shoulder into her side, knocking her off balance and against the potions worktable. Then, before she could react, he was gone, the classroom door falling closed behind him.

It was pointless, but she couldn’t help herself; she frowned at Snape, gesturing to the closed door behind her. “What was that?”

“A petulant child whose theatrics have grown tiresome,” he replied, expression frozen in annoyance as he leaned against the door frame leading to his office.

“Why did you bring his attention to me like that?” she questioned, feeling rather irritated herself.

Snape eyed her, evidently not appreciating her tone. “I assumed you would prefer he not take up resources which were allotted to _you_. I do not have unlimited time to bandy about.”

“I would prefer not to have someone _that_ unstable directing his energy and attention at me!”

He offered a disdainful sniff. “Intriguing sentiment from someone who has been drawing substantial attention of late.”

"There’s a distinct difference between me getting in trouble and me being in the crosshairs of some reactionary,” Cleo argued, no-nonsense.

“It is not _trouble_ to which I am referring, though that could very well be where you end up.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You can’t seriously think I was part of that protest.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I do recall your name being mentioned rather prominently.”

“You weren’t even there,” she emphasized, scowling. “I was a symbol, nothing more. Same with Potter. Unless it’s to be believed that I’m _actually_ the one, solitary person mistreated most by Dumbledore?” She could think of _fifty_ students that fit that description better than she.

Unfazed, he looked down his nose at her. “The point, which seems to have soared over your head, is that despite my not being present, I somehow managed to catch wind that _you_ were.”

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” she spat, disgusted. “Can you just act like a decent human being for once--”

“Miss Croft,” he warned, eyes narrowing.

The implication which came after was clear as day; her mind couldn’t help but amble to Trelawney. Snape was drawing a line here. She had to respect it.

Reigning herself in, Cleo ventured, “It makes me uncomfortable when you force me into a confrontation with the the son of a violent, convicted Neo-Nazi. I’m just asking you don’t. Please.”

Snape sighed through his nose, gaze drifting across the empty classroom before settling on her with a mild glare. “Very well,” he relented, folding his arms. “I shall endeavor to direct Mr. Malfoy’s foul attitude elsewhere.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

Snape fixed her with a look. “I imagine your purpose in being here is to say something a great deal more substantial.”

It was difficult to shake the unease she felt at the previous encounter, but she forced herself to take a few further strides towards him before announcing: “So, after research, I’ve sort of realized that the Wizarding World is more than a bit behind when it comes to contraceptive methods, much less gynecological health. And although the current zeitgeist is a bit more than conservative in regards to birth control, I find it more than suitable to spend my time developing a contraceptive potion in order to--”

“I said ‘substantial’, not ‘barely sufficient’,” Snape interrupted her, harsh. “You expect me to believe a week of contemplation brought you to such paltry conclusions?”

“It’s reasonable,” she argued. “And within the realm of actually accomplishing, especially within the next two years.”

His stare was disapproving. “‘Reasonable’ ideas ought to be left to those of below average intellect and potential. You, however, do not qualify.”

She scowled. “I hardly call developing a new potion anywhere near below average--”

“By the time I was your age, I had already done so,” Snape informed her. “If I am to invest my time in you, I expect _excellence_ , not diffidence.”

“This isn’t the bare minimum,” she countered, vehement. “Wizards haven’t even realized what stops pregnancy, and I could easily develop something that actually _works_ and--”

“Yes, you are correct about how _easy_ it would be,” was his sneered remark. “So easy, in fact, that it could be accomplished in a mere handful of months. And then what will you do? Languish in your mediocre, _reasonable_ success?”

“Is anything short of a Wolfsbane ingenuity not worth it to you?” she caustically inquired.

The man considered her, arms folded, his answer branching off into a separate direction. “You do yourself a disservice to set such a low bar. To have settled for such a safe plan, you must have considered one more precarious.”

“Infeasible,” she corrected, displeased.

At that, his shrewd gaze focused in, as if he’d caught her out on a lie. Cleo could only endure it for a few seconds before she was scoffing.

“Infeasible means infeasible,” she insisted. “I literally can’t do it. Not while I’m at school.”

“And why is that?” he prompted, a challenge.

“Because this isn’t just a Wizarding World thing,” she answered. “Muggles don’t have this quite figured out, either.”

“You are measuring yourself against those who do not possess the same tools which are available to you,” Snape pointed out. “It is the privilege of wizards and witches to understand the unfathomable, to accomplish the _infeasible_. It is simply in our nature.”

“Even if that were so, I’d need the training of a Healer to even begin doing _that._ ”

“It is fortunate, then, that you will shortly be receiving just such an education.”

Her expression contorted in disbelief. “ _What?_ ”

Snape’s stance shifted as he told her, “You are, in fact, expected to report to St. Mungo’s in two hours.”

She walked toward him, head canted and confused. “How am I expected at St. Mungo’s in two hours?”

“How?” he echoed ahead of an amused snort. “Your advisor arranged it.”

“But you haven’t even agreed to be my--”

“Not yet,” he conceded, a gleam in his dark eyes. “As I said, I only advise those of _singular_ vision, who seek to accomplish that which others would deem impossible.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start,” she confessed, emphatic.

“Have I taught you nothing?” Snape questioned with a glare. “You start where all potions originate: their base components.”

“I can’t get past the primary ingredient,” she explained. “And I’m not even certain that it’s correct in the first place--”

“Well, this certainly seems like a moment in which an advisor could _advise_ ,” he retorted, mocking. “However, I appear to be missing crucial context.”

It was stupid, but still completely taken aback by these turn of events, she murmured rather inanely, “Huh?”

Snape stared at her, incredulous. “Your _aspiration_ , you foolish girl! What is the potion’s _purpose?_ ”

“Oh, right, uh--” she stammered, returning to herself. Then, the words managed to fumble out, disjointed. “Preeclampsia… potion.”

His lip curled. “The name is rather uninspired, but the idea less so. I understand there is no Muggle cure for this ailment, correct?”

“Nothing besides birth,” she said softly.

“And so?” he prompted, waving a decisive hand. “What is the intent? To mitigate the symptoms, allow for the child to be born at full term?”

“Until I could possibly find a way to understand the disease itself, that’s probably my best shot,” she replied.

“What do you suppose could accomplish the task?”

It was easier to say with Hermione. Snape was a horse of another color all together. “It’s going to sound--” she hesitated.

“Cease your dithering and speak.”

Her head turned toward the wall, the break in eye contact some meager attempt at gathering courage. However, it wasn’t getting easier, and with his stare boring into the side of her face, she confessed: “Aconite.”

His chin lifted, eyebrows raising as he commented, “Intriguing choice.”

The remark, in and of itself, was at least somewhat bolstering. She nodded, gaining steam as she continued, eyes still stubbornly directed to the wall: “It contains compounds that lower blood pressure. Even _Muggles_ have utilized it for alternative medicine. So I figure, since the hallmark sign of preeclampsia is high blood pressure, then an aconite based potion could possibly…”

“... diminish the effect of the condition,” he finished for her. “Have you any idea which part of the plant should be utilized for this purpose?”

Her head shook. “I-- I hadn’t gotten that far.”

“I have limited experience with aconite, outside of its uses in Wolfsbane and select poisons,” Snape admitted, thoughtful. “Its medicinal properties are relatively unknown in this continent.”

“So, I need to do an aconite study,” Cleo concluded, her voice meandering away shortly after she’d spoken.

“It is still a notoriously dangerous plant to work with, you realize.”

“I’m well aware,” she remarked, turning her head to frown at him.

His fingers flexed, a slight gesture of capitulation. “I am merely verifying that you know what you are getting into.”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “But this is all I have.”

“Allow me to enlighten you, then,” Snape began, his gaze direct. “This idea you’ve posed, of researching aconite? It has merit. But a single good idea is not what will determine your success. It is merely the starting point, after which you will have to put in considerable _work_ to prove to anyone your talents are worth sponsoring.”

“I _know_ ,” she pressed, crestfallen. “I know you think I’m an imbecile, but I’m--”

“If I thought you were an imbecile, I would say so,” he cut through her words, irked. “What I am presently doing is issuing a forewarning. I expect you to be very clear on the terms of my advisory role.”

“I can work,” she promised. “Really.”

At that, he pivoted away from her, re-entering his office and taking up a bit of parchment which was laid on his desk. “Then your labor begins here,” he prompted, proffering her the slip.

It took a moment for her to finally enter the room, stroll up to him, and take the parchment from his hand. “And this…?”

“An official document, outlining your provisional apprenticeship to Healer Rutherford Poke,” he explained, succinct. “You need only sign it to accept.”

A soft breath heaved out of her, both expressing some barely acknowledged excitement and a disbelief she hadn’t broken through. “Do you have a quill?”

With a careless flick of his fingers, a quill obediently soared into his open hand, but, as she moved to take hold of it, he did not release it into her grasp. Instead, he fitted her with a level stare. “Make no mistake, I will not allow you a moment’s rest in pursuit of this goal you have chosen,” he warned. “If you do not feel up to the task, now is the time to state it.”

“I can do it,” she reiterated.

An eyebrow of his twitched upward, head tilting minutely. “I expect you to remember that you said so when you encounter opposition.”

“I will,” she vowed. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

His eyes narrowed. “You will need to muster more conviction than that to convince me you will not simply abandon this venture whenever it suits you.”

“I’m _not_ going to give up!” she said, more confident that time. “I can do it.”

He gave her a short hum of acknowledgement, letting go of the quill. She brought it and the slip to the edge of his desk, signing her name with a flourish, before passing the quill back to him.

“You will take that parchment with you when you go to St. Mungo’s.”

“To… Healer Rutherford Poke,” she checked.

“Indeed.”

“And…” she paused before clearing her throat. “And what about my transportation there?”

“The Headmaster has arranged a portkey,” he informed her. His gesture toward the only other object atop his desk, which appeared to be a small, splintered wooden smoking pipe, indicated that it was already in the room. “When it is time to leave, it will activate.”

“I’ll come here to use it, I suppose?”

“Precisely,” Snape confirmed. “It will remain in this office during your Hogwarts hours, and your mentor at the hospital will keep it while you are there.”

“Okay,” she breathed, bracing herself. “That… Yeah. That sounds good.”

“I expect a full report of your hospital expedition by six o’clock tomorrow,” he said, rounding his desk to resume his seat there. “And too, twelve inches on the known uses, risk factors, and cultivation of aconite.”

 _Expedition_ was a good word for it, daunting and impossible as it seemed. The foot of paperwork, too. “Anything else?”

“Cancel any plans for Sunday,” he said in a tone that brooked no objection. “You will be assigned several duties to occupy your time.”

“Like a workhorse,” she observed, smiling for the first time. “No problem.”

Leaning against the arm of his chair, his gaze flicked from her to the door. “Now, I suggest you make preparations for your interview.”

Interview. Fun. Her body rose as she lifted herself on her toes for a moment, before falling back on her heels. Her words were expelled on an exhale. “Yes, sir.”

She shifted and carefully tucked the slip into her pocket, but not without giving it another cursory look over. It was hard to believe the bloody thing was even _real_ , but all the same -- it was right there, emblazoned in ink. _By recommendation from Professor Severus T. Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by decree of the Ministry of Magic Healing and Recovery Management Office, it is my privilege as Overseer of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to extend to you a provisional healer’s apprenticeship..._

Her eyes only glanced up again once she reached the door. However, she stopped just at the threshold, suspending her hand on the door frame. Her head bobbed down once before she looked over her shoulder. “Professor?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

She swallowed, fingers tightening their hold on the frame. “Thank you.”

He did not reply, though, up until she stepped out of the room, his gaze never left her.

When Healer Rutherford Poke regarded her, it was over the thick frames of his glasses. It was attached to a chain that floated just above his shoulder, keeping them propped up against the small length of his nose. His fingers released the entry forms she’d filled out earlier onto the surface of his desk, and when he leaned back in his chair, the chain tugged itself, lowering his glasses carefully down over his chest.

“Professor Snape mentioned you had experience in Muggle medicine,” he prompted, his fingers scraping over the side of his unshaven face.

Cleo’s head dipped into a nod. “I’m certified in First Aid procedures and I have worked in a Muggle hospital before,” she embellished. She’d _volunteered_ as a candy striper for a couple weeks when she was fifteen, but…

“And your schooling?”

“Currently doing my N.E.W.T.s in Potions, Charms, and Herbology.”

He peered at her. “No Transfiguration?”

“Oh, uhm -- no. Is that required?”

His frown was conciliatory and thoughtful, his head bouncing from side to side as he considered her question. “Not necessarily. Future applicants tend to prefer to play it safe by remaining well rounded. It really does depend upon your N.E.W.T. scores, in the end.”

Cleo glanced down at her hands before leaning forward, a bit troubled. “Well, should I possibly--”  
  
The man lifted a hand to stop her. “Please relax, Miss Croft. I’ve already taken you aboard. You needn’t worry on that account. I’m merely assessing.”

“Oh, well. Uhm--”

He picked up rather well from her gaffe, seeming unperturbed by her anxiety. “I imagine you’re looking to take up further education in healing after you graduate?”

“Ah-- yes.”

“In what position?”

“Healer.”

Healer Poke’s glasses hovered over his eyes again as he moved the top portion of the stack of papers aside to peer at something -- presumably, her transcripts. He appeared to skim over whatever was on that page, his glasses delicately perching themselves on his chest again as he looked up, pronouncing a solid, neutral: “Good.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant by _that_. He didn’t allow much time for interpretation either, as he confronted her with an observation: “I must admit, this is rather atypical; most often, applicants around your age are graduates.”

Cleo’s head dipped into a nod as she glanced down in her lap. “After my O.W.L.s, I had to take time off.”

“Weren’t sure you wanted to move forward with your N.E.W.T.s?”

She cleared her throat nervously, her eyes still directed at her lap. “No, I had uhm--” Cleo swallowed. “I took time off to start a family.”

She heard the plastic frames of his glasses clink against the metal chain as they signaled his perusal of her paperwork again.

“Ah, hadn’t noticed you claimed a dependent,” he remarked, strikingly casual.

Cleo looked up; his expression, for what it was worth, was genial.

“That will change the matter of hours, I think,” he remarked. “We prefer to accommodate for working parents.”

“That’s kind of you but--” Cleo hesitated. “I have help at the moment. My son is looked after. You don’t have to shorten my hours.”

“You’re certain?” he probed.

“Absolutely,” she urged. “You can have me as much as you need throughout the week.”

The same loud _scritching_ sound reverberated about the room as he leaned back in his chair, nails raking the back of his neck. “As it stands, this is sort of a quasi-apprenticeship. We don’t usually organize these for current Hogwarts students, not unless their marks show promise and come with recommendation. These apprenticeship positions are generally reserved for graduates who wish to begin their training in healing or mediwizardry with earnest. Normally, you’d be working full time. However, as it is, we’ll be balancing your mentorship here while you finish out your schooling, and contingent upon your graduation, your current hours will transfer to a full-time apprenticeship here. It gives you a head start, so to speak.”

“That’s really great,” Cleo enthused, smiling.

“I should preface,” Healer Poke broached, leaning forward, hands interlinking atop his desk. “Apprentice or not, I need to remind you that this is a place of _healing_. You may not be a patient’s primary, but you are assisting in their recovery. That means you’re _here_. All of you. School stays at school; home stays at home. While you are here, all of you is _here_. Is that understood?”

Cleo’s head shifted in a series of confident, sincere nods.

“Misconduct, regardless of your status as a student, will be dealt with under full scrutiny of the Ministry's Healing and Recovery disciplinary board. So I’d advise that you familiarize yourself with the Code of Conduct for this hospital.”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well,” he intoned, leaning over to slip one of the five quills situated in the inkwell at the corner of his desk. He pulled some sort of form off of one of the stacks to his left and began to write.

Cleo took in a revitalizing breath. This was actually happening. _God._

“Professor Snape spoke highly of your potion-making abilities,” Healer Poke dropped, offhand, as he leaned over to re-ink his quill.

Cleo’s brow furrowed. “He did?”

A soft chuckle rumbled from him. “Not in those words. But he isn’t the kind of man to throw around the word ‘decent’ unless he means it.”

Cleo felt a warmth settle on her shoulders; she sat up in her chair.

“What recommendations we get are usually fielded by Professors McGonagall and Flitwick,” the man remarked, blowing over the ink on the page. His eyes settled on her, deliberate. “Do you know how many Professor Snape has recommended over the entirety of his career?”

“No, sir.”

“Three,” Healer Poke answered, inclining his head toward her. “Including you.”

 _That_ was a hint. _I expect a lot._ Okay.

“I promise I’m worth his recommendation.”

His answer was merely a soft hum, one whose implication sounded very clear in her ears ( _we’ll see about that_ ), eyes going to the form in his hand. When his once over finished, he leaned forward and passed it her way.

“You’ll be assigned to the Potions and Plant Poisoning ward,” he told her. “And you’ll give this to your mentor.”

“My mentor?” she questioned, glancing down to the piece of paper in her hand. _Augustus Pye_. “Ah, I thought I was apprenticed under you--”

“As Overseer of St. Mungo’s, _all_ trainees are apprenticed under me,” he elaborated. “You are, in effect, my responsibility. However, you will be instructed by a Junior Healer. He will be the one you report to, who approves your hours, who will oversee your medical education, et cetera.”

“Right, okay,” she agreed, nodding. “Sounds great.”

He waved a hand to dismiss her and she rose from her seat, muttering another ardent _thank you_ as she gathered her things.

“Talk to Pye about getting yourself fitted for some robes,” he mentioned, before his lips twisted. “How tall are you?”

“Ah--” Cleo halted as she stammered, glancing down the length of her body before answering. “Six foot--” She caught herself, brow furrowing. “I mean, one eighty three centimeters.”

He made a face at her blunder, but didn’t comment on it. “You can borrow one of the men’s today until we can get a Minder to fit one of the women’s for you.”

It turned out that Healer Pye was handy with a tailoring spell. Or, _Junior_ Healer Pye, he'd made a point to correct her. But, alongside a laugh, he'd mentioned he didn’t mind the promotion much.

He could get used to hearing it.

Pye found her paperwork exceedingly amusing as well. “Severus Snape, huh?”

Cleo had been smoothing out her new lime-green robes. “Yes. My advisor.”

The man whistled. “Managed that, did you?”

“I did,” she answered, her smile meek.

“You must be tough.”

She wouldn’t describe herself as that at _all_. Not after Professor Snape practically _cajoled_ her into it. “You must know something about it.”

“Got me,” Healer Pye replied, lifting his hands. “Must be ten years ago, now, when I was in your shoes? I owe him a lot, if I’m honest.”

So, this was the last person Snape advised… It felt odd to be part of what was essentially an exclusive club. And too, she was surprised to realize she was already benefiting from what was good thinking on Healer Poke’s part -- setting things up like this. It was thoughtful in a way she hadn’t expected. She might as well take advantage. “Got any advice?”

“Well,” the man sighed, his eyes going to the ceiling in thought. “I’d give up on any hope of a social life, for one. Whatever project Snape’s got you working on, you’d best be dedicating whatever free time you _got_ to it. Nothing else matters.”

Daunting. Cleo forced a smile. “Okay.”

“Oh and his essays might not seem like they’re top priority, but they _are_. If you think you can skirt by a meeting without showing up prepared, Merlin help you. Just make sure you have everything settled.”

“Right,” she breathed.

He must have caught on to her unease, because in a moment he was looking at her, supplying a reassuring: “Though, hey -- nothing has to be _perfect_ , you know? Don’t be afraid to go to him with questions. He might not seem it, but he actually _likes_ answering them. It’s probably the most light hearted I ever saw him, when he was helping me work a problem. If that’s even the right term to use.”

“Suitable enough,” Cleo replied, charitable.

“But hey, enough about school,” Healer Pye transitioned. “Bet you’re excited for your first day, huh?”

“I really am,” she told him. “Scared out of my mind, but I’m really excited.”

“Don’t worry too much. We’re on the night shift so things tend to be pretty quiet. At any rate, most of the HICs have gone home, and the mix queue is usually empty until morning.”

Cleo frowned. “HICs?”

“Hah-- sorry.” Pye smiled, self-deprecating. “Healers-in-Charge. They're senior staff assigned to a ward. Juniors and trainees like me and you are their assistants.”

“What happens if there’s an emergency during the night?”

“Well, Healers have on-call portkeys for a reason, right?”

Cleo grinned as she looked down, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, right.”

“Honestly, I wasn't planning to work you much tonight anyway. Thought I’d introduce you to some of the Department Heads who are around, get you oriented in the potion pit, and set you on something simple.” His arm encompassed her shoulder with a jovial pat as he urged her into a stroll down the hall. “Sound good?”

“Yep,” she chirped, swallowing back her trepidation. “Let’s do it.”

For the next hour, she found herself shuffled around the building, accompanied by Pye’s running commentary. Starting at the very top floor where she'd spoken with Healer Poke, they traversed a hallway which housed a large collection of shop stalls (“They call it Green Row since everyone in the hospital eats here.”) and administrative offices (“The loo off the boardroom is _loads_ nicer than the one in the staffroom.”)

The fourth floor’s Head of Spell Damage was in attendance, a kindly old Healer by the name of Rina Thickett, and they passed by a few wards involving transfigurative reversal, memory services, and wound relief (“Everyone who works this floor is either a saint or a nutter, honestly.”). On the third floor was Potions and Plant Poisonings (“The _best_ department, obviously!”) where Pye pointed out a few of the areas they would be frequenting during her time there. The second floor smelled foul, a reddish haze hanging around the corridor (“I don’t envy the custodian who has to clean up Magical Bugs and Diseases…”). First floor involved Creature Induced Injuries, and they said hello to the Minder-In-Charge who was tending to the Acid and Flame Relief Ward (“Let’s shove off quick before Smethwyck spots me.”).

When they reached the ground floor, her mentor paused a moment at the foot of the stairs. “All that’s left is Reception, Crisis, and Artefacts, but how are you holding up?”

Cleo glanced at the sparse and near-empty waiting room. “Good.”

“Oh-- I ought to mention as well, you don’t have to always take the stairway.” Healer Pye gestured toward a set of three fireplaces lining the wall behind the Welcome Witch. “There’s Floo access to every floor. Our network’s separate from the normal one, though, so you won’t be able to go anywhere else that way.”

“Convenient,” Cleo commented. “Though, maybe the cardio’s better for me.”

“It’s mostly for the departments with debilitated patients,” he explained, speaking with his hands. “I can only assume it was a nightmare trying to float them up the stairway. But it’s handy for brewing deadlines too.”

“Good to know,” Cleo remarked, glancing to the row of Floos.

“ _Well_ , that’s an hour killed, yeah?” he joked. “I’ll set you free in a couple more. Think you might need some Wideye?”

She chuckled softly. “Probably, if I’m honest.”

The man nodded. “Worry not, I won’t subject you to the night shift often,” he promised. “And I’ll send you off at a reasonable hour. You have my word.”

“I appreciate that,” Cleo confessed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her robes. “Snape has me on for work on Sunday. I think I’ll have most of Saturday to work on my first assignment, too.” Not to mention _homework._

Healer Pye clapped his hand on her shoulder, another show of solidarity. “Seems like you’ll be needing that Wideye to _survive_ \--”

His words were cut short by the sound of the nearby door swooshing open, cold night air seeping in and curling at their legs. The uneven clatter of heels followed shortly after, and Cleo watched as the slender form of a woman materialized from thin air, the soft shimmer of her disillusionment charm receding from her. Making her way up to the front desk, attired in a light, floral-patterned dress, she kept something carefully afloat beside her.

Healer Pye’s demeanor shifted; Cleo had witnessed that stance before, evident on her father’s normally serene countenance. Before she could take in what was happening, he was already making his way across the space, leaving her standing alone.

His voice carried with spectacular ease, a practiced calm that was as soothing as it was businesslike. “Can I help you?”

“Are you a Healer?” Cleo could hear the woman speak, clear and unperturbed, as she shadowed the two. “This girl requires immediate attention… I wasn’t sure exactly what to do-- I found her while I was walking home; she was laying face down in the Bottlebrush town square and would not respond when I tried to rouse her.”

“Could you lower her to the ground for me please?” He rounded to the woman’s other side, pulling his wand from an inside pocket stitched into his robes. His wandwork was masterful and fluid, a conjured gurney cushioning the girl as she was gently lowered out of weightlessness. In a second, his gaze flashed to Cleo, and he gestured for her. “Cleo, come join me, if you will?”

So much for a quiet night.

But this was what she had been _waiting_ for, wasn’t it?

She expelled all apprehension and quickly strode to his side. His directions were prompt. “Keep this pulled down for me.”

She grasped the piece of shirt he was removing from the girl’s shoulder, and it was there that Cleo finally had the chance to look at her: The girl couldn’t have been older than seventeen. And needing “immediate attention” was _right_. Bruises nestled tight against her incredibly emaciated frame, blooming from the torn crevices of her clothes. This was completely overshadowed, however, by the large slice that acted as a schism between her shoulder and torso, winding down beneath her shirt, its only evidence the splotches of blood that sullied the fabric. It wasn’t just a cut, either -- a swath of her flesh had been completely torn from her body, leaving the sinew exposed underneath. Cleo could clearly see the striations that made up her skeletal muscle, flexing and oozing with every subdued breath she made in her unconscious state.

A voice tore her attention away from the display. Healer Pye had paused in the midst of his diagnostic spells. “Do you know how to take a pulse?”

Cleo blinked. Then, a nod overtook her head, and she bent over the side of the girl’s body, pressing her fingers up against the girl’s carotid as she pulled a _Tempus_ up with her wand.

She counted the beats to the minute. It wasn’t until she looked at Healer Pye again when she finished that he finally spoke. “Meant a spell,” he pointed out. “But creative thinking, anyway.”

Cleo’s fingers slipped from the girl’s neck. “Right.”

“I’ll teach you it later,” he offered before his gaze became expectant. “Well?”

“BPM is low,” she answered. “I counted forty five.”

It was his turn to look at her oddly, at least until she elaborated. “Oh, it’s--” she shook her head. “Her heart rate is low. It’s there, but it’s shallow.”

He nodded, the motion distracted as he focused his attention on the patient. He held his wand at an angle, poised against her sternum, as colorful ribbons of magic spread out across her chest and shoulder, encompassing the wound in a lighted cocoon.

“Pretty serious splinch,” he observed, before he addressed the woman hovering above them. “And you’re a bystander?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, holding her hands in front of her in a pose that might have looked dainty had her dress not been covered in an alarming amount of blood. “Theresa Rochford.”

“And you’re unacquainted with this young woman?”

“I have never seen her before, no.”

Cleo made a careful adjustment over the body, her hands going to dig into the unconscious girl’s pockets. She arose empty-handed. “Nothing.”

“No wand, even?”

Cleo shook her head.

Healer Pye addressed Theresa again: “When you found her, did she have a wand on her?”

“I’m not certain,” the woman answered with a slight frown. “I was engaged with transporting her here; I did not think to look.”

“Alright,” Healer Pye murmured, pocketing his wand. “Cleo, I misaligned the gurney, but we shouldn’t adjust her much. She needs to stay still. I’ll float her, but you need to keep her head supported. Understood?”

Cleo’s agreement was her movement as she pushed past Theresa, kneeling just above the girl’s crown, bending down to cradle the back of her head in both her palms.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Healer Pye stood back, a soft _Wingardium Leviosa_ leaving him. Cleo followed the slow, gentle rhythm of the lift with her hands, keeping the girl’s head supported and still.

“Good,” he complimented. “Move to the side, and keep up with me. It’ll only be down the hall. You’re doing great.”

He adjusted his position behind the gurney, wand raised. Another muted spell passed his lips, and the two of them began to move, their pace brisk. Cleo’s fingers flexed across her skull and strands of the girl’s blue and black hair fell, matted, across her wrists as they guided her to the Crisis Ward.


	9. 3rd of November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a struggle in between new employment, moving apartments, and a trip to LA! But it is finally here. We hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 10: Quality

 

On the morning of the third of November, there was an unexpected addition to their extra credit Transfiguration seminar.

“This is Ren Normandy,” Professor McGonagall was saying. “For those of you in N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts, you may have had cause to meet her already. She has graciously agreed to assist our understanding of a particular transfigurative syndrome.”

Harry had occasionally seen Ren around, never looking the same way twice, but he’d never seen Ren like _this_. McGonagall’s use of ‘her’ was not unfounded; though Ren was adorned with the normal strange accoutrements -- pure white butterfly wings sprouting from her biceps, curly purple hair, and brownish skin dotted with flecks of shimmering gold -- she was also possessed of unfamiliar, highly feminine features. Her rounded shoulders, her long and delicate legs, and her hips jutting at a saucy angle beneath her slim, frilled dress painted a very different picture of Ren than Harry was used to, despite knowing how changeable she was.

Ren lifted a hand in a dainty wave, her divergently-colored eyes surveying the gathered students. “Good to meet you-- or nice to see you again,” she remarked with casual friendliness. “Take your pick.”

Seamus’s hand shot in the air at once. “Aren’t you a man? Y’know... Normally?” he asked without a shred of tact, prompting a chorus of whispers to erupt throughout the class.

McGonagall shot a stern look toward them all, silencing them, but Ren merely shrugged in response. “Sometimes,” she answered; even her voice flowed differently. “And sometimes not.”

“I’ll thank you to ask _respectful_ questions, with _appropriate intent,_ Mr. Finnegan,” the professor demanded. “And that applies to all of you.”

Ren waved a hand, tucking a few curls behind her ears. “It’s no problem; I’m not easily offended, believe me!” Her laugh was hearty. “But maybe leave the more _scandalous_ inquiries for after class, hm?”

The next raised hand was one he recognized: Cho Chang’s. Harry hadn’t spoken to her for a long while, the awkwardness between them driven further by the fact she’d moved on to dating Michael Corner. It was strange, he thought, that she had fallen so quickly from his notice, considering the frequency with which she occupied his mind only a year ago.

Cho’s wording was reluctant; she clearly wanted to frame her question with more decency than Seamus had. “Uhm, does… Well,” she hesitated and bit her lip. “How does… Professor Tenenbaum feel about… that?”

The woman before them smirked. “Hm… annoyed, probably?” she flippantly replied. “She hates to be upstaged, you understand.”

The students let out a collective laugh, some enthused, others nervous. Cho piped up again, a little more confident. “So, she’s alright with…?” She left this sentence hanging.

“With me?” Ren prompted with her eyebrows raised. “‘Course she is. But, you know, I don’t hold it against her.”

“That’s really nice of--”

“Me?” Ren cut in, head slanted. “Merlin, don’t I know it. I’m a _saint,_ aren't I?”

Cho sat back in her seat, letting loose a small, troubled sigh. Her boyfriend, seated beside her, rose up with his hand raised at the elbow and asked: “Which do you like being better? Boy or girl?”

“Why pick favorites?” the woman remarked. “The way I see it, there’s plenty of good things about both. Or neither!”

The class as a whole wasn't sure what to make of that answer. Michael sank back into his seat, brow furrowed. Harry was just as confused as everyone else, but McGonagall saw fit to instruct, “If any of you are uncertain how to address Miss Normandy--”

“Missus, rather,” Ren smoothly corrected her, smiling.

“Ah-- yes, my mistake. Force of habit,” the professor shook her head as if to clear it. “At any rate, if there is any confusion, you need only ask Ren her current preference.”

The woman offered up a little cross-fingered salute. “I don't bite. Promise!”

There was a charged curiosity in the room, the quiet amassing in small eddies between the rows of students as Professor McGonagall organized her teaching materials. Perching her reading glasses atop her nose, she consulted a short length of parchment before querying the class: “Are any of you familiar with what a Mutaeternum is?”

Of course, Hermione had her hand up, that prim and unwavering palm so ubiquitous that the professor’s eyes seemed to pass over it entirely, seeking out another. To everyone’s surprise, a hand did go up; at the opposite end of the room, Rhys Urquhart answered when called upon, his words calm and measured. “A Mutaeternum is a metamorphmagus who is unable to alter their own body, but instead suffers random and uncontrollable shifts in appearance.”

Harry surveyed the boy’s stoic profile. Since the incident in the Entrance Hall, he’d been laying low in his classes, studious and quiet. A stark contrast to the brutal punishment Harry had seen him inflict on Malfoy.

“Correct,” McGonagall approved. “Five points to Slytherin. And, are you aware of the three core symptoms of this highly rare magical syndrome?”

The Slytherin shook his head. “No, ma’am.” His politeness was worrying in a way that Harry couldn’t place.

The hazardous moment passed, gone apparently unnoticed by all. The professor, with an air of resignation, next called on Hermione.

“The primary indicators of a Mutaeternum are auto-involuntary transformation, acute magical fatigue, and corporeal dissonance,” she rattled off, enthused.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “Thorough, Miss Granger," she intoned, the compliment a touch dry. "However, your classmates will require layman’s terms for their notes.”

“Right, ehm--” Harry was close enough to see her cheeks turn a little pink. “Their bodies change on their own, they um… have trouble with chronic tiredness and unreliable access to their magic, and their bodies never… settle? Their form is always in flux.”

“It’s most drastic while I sleep,” Ren chimed in. “I once grew a full set of walrus tusks overnight, so large Bridge couldn’t even fit on the bed…”

McGonagall explained, “Mutaeternums fluctuate much more rapidly while unconscious; the magical expenditure of the constant change they endure is recuperated during waking hours, unlike wizards without the syndrome.”

“Sleep is an elusive beast,” Ren lamented, hamming up her tale of woe. “I have hunted her for many years, but she still belongs only to the wilds.”

The next question was spoken timidly by Susan Bones. “Did anyone… um, tease you? When you were in school?”

Ren chuckled. “Of course! Though, they were always likely to get a kick in the teeth from Bridge.” She waved an excited hand. “I once saw her clock a grown man so hard with her fake leg that it actually cracked clean in half--!”

“Who?!” Lavender excitedly blurted out without raising her hand. “Was it a teacher?!”

“Well…” Ren began, her tone altogether sly.

However, Professor McGonagall stopped that line of thought in its tracks. “That is not a discussion for the classroom,” she declared before aiming a look at Ren herself. “Nor is it a topic one might consider _professional_ in any context.”

Neither Ren nor Lavender appeared particularly phased by this admonishment, instead exchanging conspiratorial looks. Normally, Harry might have indulged his curiosity as well, but he felt too uneasy to engage with the amused whispers that had erupted around him.

“Any other questions?” the professor prompted the room. “Relevant ones, Mr. Ishida.”

The seventh-year Hufflepuff retracted his hand, rolling his eyes and slumping back in his chair.

Megan Jones’s hand fluttered in the air, the action both dainty and eager. “When did this start happening?” she asked, tilting her head. “How old were you?”

“ _Funny_ story about that,” Ren commented, eyebrows raised. “I was actually born with two heads on! My parents thought they’d had conjoined twins!”

Hannah Abbott made the hushed inquiry, “What are _conjoined_ twins?”

At the same moment, Pansy Parkinson exclaimed, in horror-stricken tones, “You had _two heads?! Gross!_ ”

The whispers struck up again around the room, this time of a more urgent nature, barely quelled by McGonagall’s displeased stare. She reigned in the students’ attention with the sharp proclamation, “That manner of language is unacceptable. Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Parkinson.”

The girl folded her arms, expression foul as she muttered, “What? It's _weird_.”

McGonagall's tone was crisp as she lectured, “It is common for this condition to begin at birth, though Ren's experience is, perhaps, more dramatic than most. As such, I _expect_ you to comport yourselves with decency in this matter.”

Despite the reprimand, Ren seemed far from being affected by Pansy's words. Her smile was positively serene as she tacked on, “Honestly, I only wish I could have seen the doctor's face when that head disappeared overnight.”

“Doctor?” Cho's voice floated to the front again, gentle. “Not Healer?”

“Mhm! My parents were of the non-magical variety, _bless_.”

“Wait but,” Cho continued, flabbergasted. “How did the Muggles not…?”

“Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, I imagine,” Ren shrugged. “Mum just mentioned that none of the doctors remembered anything about it when she went back for checkups.”

The next question came from Hermione. “Were you able to go to primary school?”

“Nope!” the woman replied, popping the “P”. “Couldn’t even leave my house, really.”

This seemed to baffle Hermione. “Well-- aren’t there any magical remedies? Any treatments to help manage the condition?”

Professor McGonagall fielded that particular question. “Not much is known about this particular ailment, partially because it is so rare. There have only been two cases in the whole of Britain in the last hundred years.”

At that, one of the seventh year Slytherins, Raegan Stroud, spoke up. “Gee, so you’re a real freak of nature, huh?”

Ren raised her eyebrows, amused. “Oh! I love nature! Did I ever tell you all the story about how I once grew mushrooms on my head? Enraged some Moss Folk in Norway, but I managed to convince them I was a forest sprite--”

“Any further comments like that,” McGonagall warned, her shrewd gaze fixed on the Slytherins in the room “and I will be reporting your behavior to the Headmaster. Is that understood?”

During the protracted silence, Harry glanced over, the accused students either sulking or glaring. Even Urquhart, whose expression had been fairly neutral throughout, was now wearing a look of contempt. “Yes. We _understand_ ,” he answered in Raegan’s stead, his voice controlled.

The professor pursed her lips, clearly grown weary of interruptions. “Now, can anyone tell me how someone with this condition differs from, say, Animagus abilities, or someone who has performed a self-transfiguration? Padma?”

“Animagi have a base form, which is then altered to a secondary state, and they can switch at-will between the two. And… Mutaeternums have no control of their body states?” the girl answered.

“Yes, that is true; five points to Ravenclaw. But it is perhaps more accurate to say that they have no body states at all. It is difficult to discern if Mutaeternums have a natural body state, since they possess no stable traits with which to define them…”

As the lecture continued, Harry looked to Ren for a reaction. However, there wasn't much to see; her stance was relaxed, lounging with one elbow on the lectern. Up to now, he’d always chalked up Ren’s strange appearance to be another ‘magical thing’ that he’d spent so many years gawking at, some quirk of Wizarding fashion that he hadn’t caught on to. Now that he knew the unpleasant particulars, Ren’s plight seemed… terribly sad.

After the students had been dismissed, Harry extracted himself from his friends to approach the front of the room, heading for Ren herself. A few other students were chatting with her, causing Harry to awkwardly dither on the outskirts as he waited for an opening. When the others dispersed, he greeted her with a stiff, “Hey.”

“Hey Harry,” she returned, easygoing.

“Um…” Harry blew out a puff of air, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Looking to hear the rousing tale of Bridge's broken leg?"

"Oh, er… no, sorry," he admitted, not wanting to offend. "I'm sure it's a great story and all--"

“How about this class, eh? Best you’ve ever had, I’d wager!” Ren chuckled, a mischievous tilt to her lips. “I do tend to have that effect.”

His returning smile was tinged with gloom. “Sure,” he conceded. “You’re great. But erm, can I… can I ask you a question?”

She waved a hand. “Ask away!”

“How…?” He cringed, rephrasing in his head. Something easier to manage first. “How’s Professor Tenenbaum doing?”

Ren’s face lit up. “Bridge’s recovery is going _swimmingly,_ I’m happy to report,” she said. “Just a little snag with her condition, is all.”

Harry frowned. “Her condition?”

“Ah,” the woman before him ran a hand through her aubergine-colored hair. “Just a silly little thing she ran into while she was investigating some old ruins in Ukraine.”

“Was there an accident?” he questioned, his mind conjuring the image of her in her wheelchair. “Some kind of… magical creature?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Ren commented, waving a hand again. “She’s just been sick, is all. But I reckon Snape will have it sorted before long.”

That set off a small alarm in Harry’s mind. “What’s _he_ got to do with it?”

“Been supplying her with potions, to keep her strength up,” she explained, reaching up to play with one of the curls on her shoulder. “It’s thanks to him she’ll be returning to teach Defense next week.”

Harry had wondered why she was so long absent from her own classes; it was hard to imagine a tough-as-nails spitfire like Professor Tenenbaum needing time to recover.

“You’ve been doing alright, though,” Harry commented in an attempt to be generous. Ren’s command of a classroom was virtually nonexistent, and she mainly let everyone do whatever they wanted while she told absurd stories to the portion of the class who cared to listen.

Ren grinned. “While I’m glad you think so, I don’t think teaching is really my calling.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what _is_ your calling?”

The laugh that bubbled out of the woman was full of mirth. “ _Great_ question,” she complimented him. “I’d like to know the answer myself, though I think it’s as simple as ‘anything I’ve not got bored of yet’.”

At that, his mind returned to the original curiosities which had propelled him to her to begin with. “Right… D’you change jobs a lot?”

“No, no, I just don’t have one,” Ren clarified, smirking. “I prefer to exist as a leech on the backside of society.”

Harry felt certain that was meant as a joke, but he couldn’t quite find the humor in it. “It, er… It must be hard, yeah? To live with… a condition like this?”

Ren’s gaze drifted upward as she considered this. “Well, I don’t really think of it like a _condition,_ ” she remarked. “I’ve just always been like this. You get used to it.”

 _Do you?_ Harry thought, agitated. If it were him, he wasn’t sure he could deal with something like that. “But isn’t it… I don’t know. Painful?”

The woman before him laid a hand on his shoulder, her next words quite gentle. “There’s no cause for you to worry, Harry. It’s not painful, just occasionally inconvenient.” Then, she laughed. “And I always like a good challenge anyway!”

Harry grimaced, still troubled. There was another question burning in his throat, the crux of all his distress, but he worried it would be rude to ask it. Or perhaps, more accurately, he worried that he wouldn’t find the sort of answer he needed.

He shifted in place, his question worming its way into the light of day. “How do you… know who you are?” he asked, forthright and earnest. “How do you know, when everything’s just… changing around you all the time?”

Ren took a moment to survey him, her brow creasing with concern. “I suppose it’s something I had to figure out on my own,” she divulged, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I learned to take each day as a new adventure, to be what I wanted to be in spite of circumstances. Sometimes I’m the clown with a lizard tail, sometimes I’m the Loch Ness monster’s cousin, sometimes I’m the bearded lady.” She shrugged, offering him a small smile. “I’m content to let tomorrow bring whatever it will.”

That was… Of course, it made _sense_ for Ren to think the way she did. But there was something achingly unsatisfying about that answer that Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. Slowly, he leaned away from her reach, letting Ren’s arm fall away from his shoulder and back at her own side. “Right, yeah,” Harry murmured, distant. “I’m-- er, it’s-- it’s good to know that you have a good attitude about it all.”

“Exactly!” she chirped, clapping her hands together. “So, nothing to worry yourself over, hm?”

“Yeah,” he said again, turning to leave the room. _Nothing to worry about at all._

__

“S’your move, Harry,” Ron remarked with a yawn.

“I know that,” he groused, brow furrowed. “How is it that you’ve gotten loads better at wizard’s chess, while I’ve only gotten worse?”

“Dunno, mate. Maybe you were born to be a loser.”

“Stuff it, you,” Harry retorted, sacrificing his rook to Ron’s bloodthirsty knight. “I’m just off my game is all.”

Hermione cut in with, “Another round, is it?” as she emerged from the girls’ dormitories, fingers curled around several writing instruments and cradling a stack of parchment to her chest.

Ron took an imperious bite out of his fourth ginger newt as Harry replied, “Yeah, did you want to play?”

“No, thank you,” her response was soft as she took a seat on the couch adjacent to Ron’s lounge chair, laying out her materials beside her.

“Suit yourself,” Ron remarked. “You can just witness me destroy Harry's front line.”

His bishop massacred another of Harry's pawns with a single vicious swipe. “We'll see about that,” he countered, eyeing the board as if he were merely scheming a foolproof plan.

His friend guffawed. “Don't act coy -- you and I both know you're rubbish at defensive maneuvers.”

Harry raised his head to glare briefly, but resumed his examination of the board.

They went on playing for a while in quiet, peppered about here and there with a few wisecracks from Ron, until Harry heard Hermione’s voice blossoming from beside him, the pointed nature of her words belying their utterly casual delivery: “Harry and I missed you during the Transfiguration seminar this morning.”

While Ron's knight was galloping into place, he mirrored her tone. “Well, here now aren't I?”

“I think you would’ve liked today’s subject.”

“Yeah?” he intoned, dull.

“Ren got to explain her condition,” she coaxed.

Harry inwardly winced at the reminder. Ron, however, could not have been more disinterested. “Mm. Great.”

When Harry looked at Hermione, he could see the lines on her forehead prominently as she frowned, deliberate in what she said next, even as she pretended to be engrossed with what she was writing. “What were you up to, then?”

The redhead shrugged, though he wasn't very good at hiding the tension in his shoulders. “Y’know. This and that.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then maybe next Sunday you’d consider going with us?” she suggested. “We could go to Hogsmeade after.”

“Think not.”

She finally turned toward the both of them, visibly flustered. “Well-- why not?”

Ron cast her a sidelong look, saying, “Because I don't want to go?”

“I don’t _understand_ \--”

“It's not that complicated Hermione,” he informed her, his voice suffused with attitude. “I've got enough school without going to _extra_ school over the weekend.”

“ _Do_ you, though?” she challenged. “You barely attend your classes as is.”

Ron bristled. “I still go!” he insisted, before qualifying: “ _Sometimes!_ What's it to you?”

Hermione appeared offended that he’d ask such a thing. “I don’t know, let’s think,” she said hotly. “How about the fact you’re my _best friend_ and I’m worried about you?”

Harry was ready to intervene before a full-blown argument could start, but Ron backed down, if only slightly. “There’s nothing to be worried about,” he told her, subdued. “I just don’t care about extra credit. Don’t even know why you need it, anyway.”

“For _you,_ it would be to improve your marks after all the classes you’ve missed,” she pointed out.

His sigh came out in a gust, and he leaned all the way back in his chair, his head flopping back to face the ceiling. “Who _cares?_ ”

“ _I_ do!” she exclaimed, frowning. “If you keep on like this, you’re going to get expelled due to absence alone. Doesn’t that concern you at all?”

He closed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “No.”

Remembering what Hermione had said before, Harry spoke up, then. “Ron-- I know school isn’t a great time or anything, but haven’t you got some kind of career you want to do?”

The redhead sat up again suddenly, pinning him with a look. “Not everyone can be you, Harry. I’m not going to be an _Auror,_ because that’s not bloody realistic.”

The condescending tone stung. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Ron snorted. “What d'you think? You're--!”

“Don't say something you'll regret,” Hermione rebuked him. “That’s not even what he asked. We want to know what _you_ want to do. Not what other people think you're ‘capable’ of.”

“Well that’s just it, isn’t it?” Ron sneered in her direction. “No one expects anything of me, and anything else I thought I wanted was just stupid and childish, wasn’t it?”

Hermione’s features softened. “Oh Ron,” she murmured, crestfallen. “That’s not true at all.”

Her tone, rather than calming him, actually set him off. “Oh, _please_ ,” he spat with a scowl. “Quidditch star? Chess champion? Till boy for a joke shop? Who am I kidding?”

Harry frowned. “None of those are bad things to do--”

“I’m going to be seventeen years old in a few months,” Ron interrupted. “A proper adult. And what have I got to show for it? _Nothing._ ”

Hermione leaned forward in her seat, as earnest as Harry had ever seen her. “Seventeen is still really young, Ron. You can’t have it all figured out right now, you know? But so long as you just sit down and have a proper _think_ about--”

“Oh yeah, here’s me with my thinking cap on,” he mocked her, snatching one of her pieces of parchment and putting it on his head. “I’m not that thick, Hermione; just because I don’t go to class doesn’t mean I’ve forgot how to use my brain.”

She pulled the bit of parchment from his head, the edge of it catching on Ron’s lip before she put it in her lap. “I’m not saying you’re stupid,” she admonished him. “It just seems like you’ve been avoiding considering what you could possibly _do._ Have you even considered what subjects you may have an affinity for, anything that can translate into marketable job skills?”

“Ugh, not this again,” he groaned.

“Well, as you said, you’re almost seventeen,” she reiterated. “A _proper_ adult--”

“Not everyone is bloody ‘marketable’--!”

“People aren’t just _lost causes_ either, Ronald!”

The sound of a throat being cleared burst into their conversation. “Should we, er… come back later?”

Neville was standing on the outskirts of sofas, accompanied by Seamus and Dean. Standing together in a rough semicircle, they were attired casually for the weekend, though the heavy robes draped over their arms indicated they’d ventured out of the castle.

Harry was quick to fill the awkward silence. “No, it’s fine,” he said, casting a brief glance in the direction of Ron and Hermione. “Did you go out to Hogsmeade?”

Neville shuffled his feet. “Oh-- yeah, we did--”

“Are we seriously going to gloss over this?” Hermione burst in, frazzled. “We were just getting somewhere--!”

Ron scowled at her, clearly ready to counter that, but Harry raised his voice. “We can talk about it later. _Right?_ ” He looked at them both pointedly.

The redhead grumbled something in the affirmative, while Hermione huffed.

Seamus commented, then. “If you need us to shove off while you’re working something out--”

Dean cut in, “Think they’re fine, mate.”

Neville still looked uncertain, so Harry reassured him, “We’re alright.”

“They say they're alright, they're alright,” Dean corroborated, giving the other boys a single pat on the back before settling himself next to Hermione. Seamus shrugged, tugging a chair over and sitting in it backwards, but Neville remained on his feet.

Ron blew out a gust of air. “To what do we owe the pleasure, gentlemen?” he questioned.

“Well,” Dean said, “Best cut to it, then, yeah? Neville?”

The boy nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers beneath his robes. “We got to talking on the way back from Hogsmeade, and everyone's been wondering why you haven't… you know. Rounded up the troops. So to speak.”

Everyone's gaze gravitated to Harry. He grew defensive under the scrutiny. “What? Why are you all looking at me?”

“D.A., Harry,” Seamus mentioned, quiet. “Y'know, I thought for a while that I just wasn't invited, but turns out you've been sittin’ on your hands--”

“That's not it, mate,” Ron came to his defense. “There's just been a lot going on.”

“Yeah, like You-Know-Who being back?” Dean commented, blunt. “We know. But wasn't the point of D.A. to prepare us to fight?”

“It was to prepare you to _defend_ yourself,” Harry countered, his brow creased. “There’s a big difference between the two.”

Neville ran a hand across the side of his face to scratch the back of his neck. “We understand that, Harry. But, I mean, if that’s the case, why don’t we keep up with it? I’m sure there’s loads of kids in the younger years who could benefit from knowing the best--”

“No,” Harry cut him off. “There’s way too much--”

“Honestly,” Hermione’s words overlapped his. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea. We’ve all got our N.E.W.T.s to worry about, and we really only made time for it last year because Umbridge refused to teach us.”

Ron swiftly agreed, “Yeah, and now we’ve got Tenenbaum, and she’s brilliant with all the field scenarios she does.”

Seamus wrapped his arms about the chair back, leaning his chin on the very top of it. “She’s a mad banshee though.”

“That’s a bit rude, Seamus,” Hermione chastised.

Dean leaned forward in his seat, earnest. “I still think it’s important to group up, just us students. We’ve got to learn how to support each other if we want to have a chance against Death Eaters--”

“You won’t,” Harry blurted, his stomach twisting.

The looks the boys gave him were varying mixtures of concern and pity. Dean clarified, “I’m not saying we plan to face them any time soon.”

“They shouldn’t be faced at all,” he countered, clenching his fingers tightly together. “It’s--”

“Isn’t that what _you_ did last term?” Seamus accused, frowning.

Ron’s reply was harsh, “For _once_ , just shut that massive gob of yours--!”

“No, he’s right,” Harry silenced him, facing the irish boy squarely. “We went in reckless and unprepared. And that’s _exactly_ what can’t happen again.”

Neville remarked, “And of course, we would be sure to include caution in the curriculum, Harry. Others can learn from our mistakes, and we should--”

“I already told Professor Tenenbaum no, and I meant it.” The delivery of this admission was as firm as he could muster.

Hermione looked surprised. “The professor spoke to you about it?”

“Yeah, a while back,” Harry sighed. “And if she couldn’t convince me, then you lot certainly won’t.”

Seamus snorted. “Boy… tell us how you really feel.”

Neville mustered a strained smile. “I know you aren’t trying to say anything bad about us, Harry, but we think this is really important.”

“Here’s the thing, Harry,” Dean said, leaning his elbows on his knees, gesturing to get his point across. “This is bigger than just you. Whatever it started as, D.A. became a place for students to help each other, to grow closer together. There was a _unity_ there that didn’t exist anywhere else in the castle. The members felt like they had somewhere they belonged. D.A. was something that even crossed House lines… which, believe me, is nearly _unheard_ of. It’s impossible to deny the kind of community it inspired, and, and… don’t we _need_ that right about now?”

With an argument like that, it was hard to say no. Still, Harry knew they could never be in agreement about this… the very prospect of taking up the club’s mantle again felt physically repulsive. He did _not_ want to talk about this.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to do so by Hermione, who, while normally so stalwart in her convictions, had evidently been swayed by Dean’s pronouncement. “I know what you mean, and those are all good things to cultivate, but I think there are other ways to do that,” she ventured before sitting straighter and articulating precisely, “I’ve actually founded a school club to support equal representation for Muggleborns.”

Ron spluttered, “What?! _When?_ ”

“Officially?” she replied, controlled. “Just this morning. But I’ve been working on it since the beginning of term.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows. “What’s ‘officially’ mean?”

Hermione’s tone was crisp. “It’s a sanctioned, legitimate organization with signed approval from the Headmaster and a designated faculty representative.”

“Sounds impressive!” Neville commented, sincere.

Ron was much less so. “What’ve you named this one, then?” he chuckled with mocking disbelief. “'Tosh'? 'Bogey'? Was one useless club not enough for you?”

She rounded on him, face red, though, judging by her next words, she’d been well prepared for this. “They aren’t _useless_ , Ronald. _I’m_ planning to make an actual difference in this school, which is more than I can say for _you_.”

"Yeah?" Ron countered, venomous. "What are you going to do? Knit little hats for Muggleborns? Get real, Hermione!"

"I am!" she declared. "If you'd just listen for two seconds--"

"Weren't you the one who just said 'oh, we don't have time for clubs, we've got N.E.W.T.s'?!"

"Don't you twist this around!" Hermione accused him, flustered. "Just because _you've_ decided you don't care about anything doesn't mean I have to!"

Ron abruptly stood, shrugging his robes back on. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Where are you going?" Hermione demanded. "You pr--"

"See you, Harry," the redhead purposely ignored her, giving the other boys a mock salute. "Chaps."

Neville offered a feeble, uncertain wave as Ron took leave of the common room entirely, leaving the five of them sitting there in stunned silence. Seamus looked deeply uncomfortable, Dean sympathetic, and Neville downcast. When Harry chanced a glance at Hermione, she looked poised to cry, her fingers twisting in her lap.

"Oh, I _hate_ him sometimes," she seethed, her voice warbling with the threat of tears. "I really do."

"You don't mean that," Harry quietly interceded.

Hermione pierced him with a sharp glare. "And what were _you_ doing? Just letting him talk to me like that?"

His objection was feeble. “I-- I wasn't…"

She stood up right as a tear escaped one of her lashes, gathering her papers. "Think I'll put these flyers together in the dorm after all," she said, turned away from them all. "The first club meeting is next Tuesday after dinner in the Muggle Studies classroom; you're all invited."

With that parting announcement, she disappeared up the stairs to the girls dormitory. Harry busied himself with packing up the wizard's chess set so he didn't have to look at the others.

Seamus broke the silence. "Do those two ever quit fighting?"

Harry grimaced. It was more than that. He couldn't strictly pinpoint what made this time seem different, but… He could _feel_ it. These weren't just petty squabbles anymore, were they? There was something deeper running beneath their words, and he had no idea how to identify it, much less where he could possibly begin the work of fixing it.

Neville inquired, "Will she be alright?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, s'pose so."

Dean remarked, "I think Hermione has always had great vision, but…" He looked at Harry. "What this school needs more is a leader."

Harry dropped his eyes, closing up the wooden box of the chess set with a definitive clack. "I'm going to get ready for Quidditch practice."

Dean's brow furrowed. "What? That's not for hours, yet."

"Yeah, that's the idea," he returned, tucking the box beneath his elbow and walking away.

Harry had no destination in mind, but, at that moment, anywhere seemed a better choice.

By the time four o’clock came around, Harry had given himself a massive headache from trying, and failing, to figure a way to reconcile Ron and Hermione to each other. Equally dismaying was the fact that his exhaustion had fully caught up to him once more.

Ginny elbowed him in the arm, her safety pads digging in uncomfortably. “You’ve missed the whole of Katie’s pep talk, Harry,” she informed him, displeased.

He blinked around, slow to remember that he was at Quidditch practice, sitting in the changing rooms. It looked like the rest of the team had already left, and that fact roused Harry enough for him to shoot automatically to his feet, blearily alert. “Did I miss practice?” he asked, voice thick.

The girl got to her feet, fixing him with a pointed stare. “Not yet,” was her stiff reply. “But it would be a near thing if I wasn’t here.”

Harry sighed, relieved but still tense. “Right. Um, thanks for that.”

Ginny folded her arms. “You’ve been really out of it lately, you know--”

“Yeah, I’m…” He let out another sigh. “I mean, N.E.W.T.s and all…you know, pretty tired.”

“Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “But if you’re this bad off, you can go catch some sleep, Harry.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll--”

“We’ll survive without you for one day,” Ginny pointed out, grabbing hold of her broomstick.

“No,” Harry insisted, taking up his Firebolt at the same time. “I want to play. _Really_.”

The girl before him frowned, offering him a shrug. “If you say so.”

When they walked out onto the pitch, Katie called out to him, “Good to see you’re looking better, Harry!”

The team was running Keeper drills it looked like… Dean was hovering near the goalposts, breathing hard and leaning heavily on the front end of his broom while all the rest of the team plotted their next maneuver to bombard his line of defense. The moment Harry’s name was mentioned, all eyes fell on him, and Dennis Creevey waved an enthusiastic hand in the air, his broomstick bouncing with the force of his joy.

Bashful and, if he was honest, still dead tired, Harry turned to blink at Ginny. “Did you, er…?”

“Told them you were under the weather,” she admitted, shrugging again. “Not that it wasn’t obvious already.”

 _Was it?_ Harry rubbed at his eyes once or twice before mounting his broom, his hair fluttering against his forehead as the Firebolt brought him level with his teammates. On his arrival, he could hear Katie saying, “... a good play, now that Harry’s here. Demelza, let’s have you and Ginny flank, Dennis can head straight down the middle-- show him that mean right hook of yours. And then Harry--”

He sucked in a short breath and sat up straighter, his mind having begun drifting off somewhere in the middle. “Yeah?”

“You’re always really good at those hairpin turns, plus you’ve got the speed most of us don’t. I just want you to get in Dean’s way, act like you’re going for the Snitch, but just sort of dodging past everyone.”

“Right.” Easy enough, he supposed, though the situation was less than ideal considering the unpleasantness of his recent run-in with Dean.

“Okay, it’s settled," Katie concluded, and her smile could be heard in her tone. "You all know what you’ve got to do? Good. Let’s give him hell, eh? Sure bet Slytherin won’t grant him any mercy in the next match.”

The group broke up, everyone drifting about the area, eyeing Dean like prey. For his part, he seemed to have recovered his breath, gripping the neck of his broom tight.

Harry took up his perch high center, the soles of his shoes making a rubbery noise as he positioned them on the broom's stirrups. The familiar vantage point helped steady him some, his mind automatically on alert for the Snitch, despite knowing there wasn't one about.

“Ready?!” Katie’s voice carried across the pitch.

The chill wind stirred his hair; Dean juked to the side as if he'd been expecting an early onslaught.

Harry's focus narrowed as Demelza leaned forward on her broom and Ginny affixed her goggles to her face. His fingers were cold and clammy inside his half-gloves.

At the climax of their anticipation, Dennis stopped fidgeting, his broom steady as a rock. Harry sucked in a gust of air, readying himself for the first dive…

“GO!”

He awoke to the bleary, familiar sight of the Hospital Wing ceiling.

Harry blinked. The effort to close and open his eyelids was tremendous; the fuzzy environs lent the real world a dreamlike tinge that tempted him to rest.

Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey's distant, emphatic words helped coax him into wakefulness.

“Young lady, you go back right now and tell Severus I absolutely _refuse_ to accept potions brewed by students!”

The answering voice was just as easy to place as well. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t do that.”

Harry turned his head toward the sound of Croft’s voice, wincing at a pain which bloomed from his right leg and shoulder. His glasses and wand lay on his bedside table, as they usually did whenever he found himself subjected to the infirmary’s staid atmosphere. There was no curtain around his bed, so he had an unimpeded view of the two women, standing just outside the matron’s office.

“You can, and you will,” Pomfrey insisted. “I take the recovery of my patients _far_ too seriously to be made a mockery of.”

Croft rebalanced the crate of vials in her arms, no more convinced than she had been before. “I take the recovery of your patients with the utmost severity as well, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Then march yourself back to Professor Snape and tell him to do his _own_ job,” the woman retorted, arms falling sternly akimbo.

“The second I go back down, Professor Snape will force me back here, and this argument will happen again. I’m saving us both the effort, ma’am.”

“If he won’t see reason, I’ll confront him myself!” was Pomfrey’s determination.

“I can’t stop you; that’s your prerogative. However, I would prefer to have us avoid that unpleasantness altogether.”

Harry quashed a small snort at that understatement. Snape was about as “unpleasant” as they came.

Still, this did not deter the matron in the slightest. “I have very strict instructions on how those potions are meant to be made, and I cannot abide this laziness on his part. Mr. Potter needs bruise healing paste, and this delay is unprofessional, to say the least!”

It had never occurred to him that Snape was the one who brewed potions for the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it should have -- after all, despite the varied supply of potions, he’d never seen a cauldron around the place. All the same, it sort of made him want to squirm, knowing that the professor's hands had touched them.

“I am completely aware of your standards, I assure you,” Croft replied, the utter picture of serenity. Without his glasses, he couldn't see her face clearly, but her demeanor said it all. It was an odd contrast to their last meeting in Hogsmeade, when she’d gone off on Ron. “And I can also promise that Professor Snape would not have sent me had they not _met_ those standards.”

“Miss Croft, I understand my objections may sound like an insult, but it’s a matter of principle,” Pomfrey informed her with a sigh. “It’s not right for the man to set you on duties given to _him_.”

Harry grimaced. _What an arsehole._ Losing the battle against his lethargy, he closed his heavy eyelids, though that didn’t stop him from hearing the rest.

“If it’s a matter of efficacy, I’m happy to let you test them.” He heard the sound of the clinking vials as Croft shifted the crate in her arms again. “On me, if need be.”

“That won’t be necessary…”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the problem, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Miss Croft, the problem is that you are a student, not a certified Potioneer, and an even farther cry from a Master.”

“I was overseen by a Master, who approved the formulations before they were vialed.”

Harry heard Pomfrey expel a frustrated sigh. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

“I apologize, ma’am, but I’m not.”

“He sure does like to send me the live ones, doesn’t he?” The matron sounded quite put upon. “Very well. I’ll still be having _words_ with Severus, but leave the crate just there on the counter.” As Croft began to move, the matron added, “And mind that you don’t disturb Mr. Potter’s rest.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Opening his eyes once more, he watched Croft pass, her footfalls as delicate as one could possibly manage while hauling around a container about the size of her torso. She settled it atop a nearby table, hardly making a sound in the process.

He blinked once, slowly, before addressing her, “Hey.”

“Oh,” she breathed, surprised. “Uh, hi.”

“Do you have the time?”

He watched as Croft squinted at him, before her gaze went to one of the walls. He didn’t understand why, but she flinched, her face immediately flying to the ceiling. “Probably past seven. Why?”

“Oh.” He stretched out his uninjured leg, shifting on the bed gingerly. “That late already.”

“Slept the day away, huh?” Croft glanced down the length of him, eyes drawn by his movement. “What happened here?”

Staring into the space above him, Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Probably some Quidditch accident again.”

“You don’t know how you got injured?”

His gaze drifted to her. “Remember being on the broom and doing… something. Otherwise, not really.”

Her brow furrowed, an odd display of concern overshadowing her features. “Did the impact knock you out, or were you going unconscious before the collision?”

Hard to say, really. Harry took in a breath, hoping it would clear his head; he was so tired… Even answering these questions seemed strenuous. “Don’t think I hit my head, no. Think my shoulder got a bit battered somehow, and the leg uh…”

“Broken,” Madam Pomfrey supplied as she reached the other side of his bed. She shot a critical glance in Croft’s direction. “I thought I told you _not_ to disturb him.”

“He asked me for the time,” Croft excused herself.

“Mr. Potter, you need not trouble yourself with your schedule just now,” the woman instructed him, direct. “In addition to that nasty break of yours, your teammates indicated you were already feeling under the weather. Want to tell me about that?”

“Just tired, was all. Nothing serious.”

Where Madam Pomfrey normally would have replied, he heard Croft barge in instead. “Were you having a headache?” she asked, frowning. “Felt dizzy? Weakness in your limbs?”

“Ehm, well…” he began, but the matron cut in again.

“I’ll thank you to let me do _my_ job as well, Miss Croft.”

That didn’t stop the girl. “Harry, did Professor Trelawney ever open those windows?”

“Yeah,” he answered, grateful there was at least one thing he could say confidently, “I opened them right after you left.”

Relief visibly washed over her, escaping in a loud sigh. “Okay. _Okay_. Good.”

Madam Pomfrey probably didn’t know what they were talking about, but neither did she seem of a mind to pry. “Potter, I’ll need you to focus, and I can’t give you Wideye when you’ve already had something for the pain.”

His mind stuck on an odd detail. “How’d I drink a potion if I was unconscious?”

The witch gave him a patient sigh, saying, “This is exactly what I mean, but I’ll humor you this once by reminding you not all potions are drinkable. Professor Snape ought to have taught you that much.”

Croft leaned down and whispered, “Topical,” by way of explanation.

“Right,” he murmured, thick. “Um. I’m… I’m awake.”

“You don’t look it, but I’ll take your word for now,” Pomfrey remarked, peering at his shoulder. “Considering I wasn’t able to discern any other ailments… Potter, how much sleep have you been getting?”

Harry glanced between her and Croft, his brain feeling fuzzy. “Some,” he answered with a small frown.

“‘Some’?” she echoed back. “And how much is ‘some’?”

He shrugged, a tad uncomfortable to say. “I’ve just been catching up on a lot of homework,” he dodged the question.

The matron hummed in disapproval. “And I suppose you think that’s a reason to neglect your health, Mr. Potter?”

“No,” he submitted, meek.

“You’ll stay here tonight so I can be certain of a full night’s sleep from you, and to ensure that leg of yours will hold you up tomorrow.”

He sat up suddenly, anxiousness suffusing his body with energy as his expression turned beseeching. “But Madam Pomfrey--!”

The mattress depressed as Croft sat down beside him on the bed. “You need to listen to her, Harry,” she implored. “She knows what she’s talking about, and she’s trying to do what’s best for you.”

He could hardly mention that he had work to do for the Order, even if he _hadn’t_ been in mixed company. Turning toward the older woman, he pleaded, “I have something to do tonight. I can’t stay holed up in here.”

“You can, and you will,” she insisted, pointing toward the pillow. “Lie back down, now.”

He did not obey. “Please-- if… if I can prove that my leg is working alright, can I at least go for a little while, then come back later?”

“I doubt your recovery will be so rapid--”

“ _Please?_ ” Harry’s hands were clenched around the edges of the sheet. “It’s _really_ important.”

Madam Pomfrey regarded him with pity. “There is always something important happening, child. But your swift recovery is just as important. I can’t allow you to go off and injure yourself further,” she replied with a note of finality. “Now lie down, and get some rest. I’ll be stepping out to speak with Professor Snape, but I expect you to be right where I left you when I return, is that clear?”

Deflating, his head hit the pillow with a soft thud. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Would you like a curtain to deter visitors?”

“No ma’am.”

His formality wasn’t lost on her. “I truly am sorry, Potter. But perhaps this will teach you to take better care of yourself in future.”

Harry didn’t reply, staring at the fabric of the mattress as it bunched beneath Croft’s weight. Normally, he didn’t mind being coddled a bit, but today was a special case. He absolutely _had_ to get out of here. The matron hovered a glass of water onto the table beside his bed before she left. The moment the doors closed, he lifted his eyes to the girl beside him.

“I hate the Hospital Wing,” he muttered, his dejected gaze falling away quickly.

“No, I don’t think many people like being in a bad way,” she agreed. “Not many happy reasons to be in hospital.”

“It’s like a _prison,_ ” Harry commented, knowing he was being a bit dramatic, but not quite awake enough to care. “I’ve been here so many times, there isn’t a bed in here I haven’t slept in.”

“I can’t imagine how tough that is,” she sympathized.

Letting out an explosive sigh, he shifted in the bed, jerkily grabbing hold of his glasses to shove them on. Harry cast about for something else to say, not particularly wanting to dwell on his predicament. “That’s a lot of potions you brought,” he observed, inclining his head toward the crate.

She look back at them, a satisfied smile crawling across her face. “I spent all day brewing them.”

Harry frowned. “Rotten luck.”

“It was fun, actually,” she told him. “I’ve never done large-batch brewing before. I liked it. Kept me on my toes.”

He stuck out his tongue in an expression of disgust. “Sounds like a nightmare to me,” he confessed with raised eyebrows. Then, sobering, he said, “So… I take it things went well with Snape, then?”

“In part thanks to you,” she admitted, abashed. “I’m… really grateful, by the way.”

“Oh. Hermione told you about that?” Surprised, and a little embarrassed, Harry stared at the glass of water at his side.

Croft chuckled. “In between giving me the business about taking you off campus without letting anyone know, yeah.”

He shrugged, even though it made his shoulder twinge. “Sorry-- she can be a little intense, but-- it’s my fault, really. I should have known it would make her worry.”

“I should have considered it in the first place,” Croft pointed out. “Considering your… I don’t know -- renown, I guess.”

“Pff, yeah,” Harry answered. “Still. I don’t really regret it. It was a fun day.”

“It was,” she agreed, before the levity in her expression sobered. “I’m sorry for snapping at your friend like that,” Croft apologized rather suddenly, her head turning to look out the window.

That wrung an airy chuckle from him. “It’s fine. Ron kind of deserved it.”

She shook her head. “It was my fault from the start anyway,” she admitted. “Thea didn’t need to hear that from a stranger.”

“How is she?”

She dropped her eyes to her lap, her fingers playing with one another. “Angry,” she said. “She needs a little time.”

“Makes sense,” Harry replied, looking at her. “But-- um. This thing with Snape. Does that mean you’re staying?”

Croft finally looked at him. “Yes.”

His reaction wasn’t quite as neutral as he thought it would be, an indefinable feeling gripping him. “That’s… good. That’s really good,” Harry remarked, surprised that he meant it. “So, you’re still my tutor, then?”

“If you’ll have me,” she intoned, the ghost of a smile shimmering over her lips. “Though, I might end up needing that Defense tutoring after all, I guess.”

His answering smile came involuntarily. “You might, yeah.”

“We’ll see how far you get until you realize how hopeless my offensive casting is.”

“I’ll warn you,” Harry joked with a wry slant to his lips, “I’m really bad at giving up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Croft dismissed, waving a hand. Then, she shifted on the mattress, her gaze going to his leg. “How’s that feeling?”

“Not a lot, honestly,” Harry remarked, sliding the sheet off his leg to get a proper look. “Pomfrey’s got the good stuff for breaks, usually.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

He waved a hand for her to go ahead. Croft stood and edged around the circumference of the bed, wand already in hand. The leg of his trousers was torn at the spot, and the sight of flecks of blood clued Harry in that his injury had previously been worse, though the skin was now unmarred aside from some pretty horrid bruises. All it took was a single swipe over the air above his injured leg before an image of the inside of it was hovering beside his knee -- a nonverbal _Intus Videre_ diagnostic he recognized from Charms.

“Nifty spell, that,” the girl remarked. “Don’t have to fiddle around with things like x-rays.”

“I’m not sure I know what that is,” he admitted.

“A type of electro--” She halted, mid-sentence, and shook her head. “Just a thing Muggles use to see your bones.”

“Oh, I think Dudley had that once,” he commented, off-hand, before tensing. He’d rather not lead the conversation toward the Dursleys if he could help it. “Anyway, what’s the diagnosis, doctor?”

She laughed at that, but it sounded subdued, struck with humility. “I’m a bit showy like that, aren’t I? I’m sorry.”

“No-- er, I didn’t mean…” Harry frowned. “Just asking-- y’know, how my leg is. I’ve seen a few medical dramas back home, just thought it would be funny…”

The look on her face was odd. He couldn’t place or read it; that seemed to be a problem when it came to Slytherins. “It was,” she promised him, but her heart didn’t seem in it. However, she didn’t dwell on it, instead looking down at the display, her lips twisting in thought.

“I don’t know what it was like before,” she admitted after a protracted silence. “But it’s healed up into a hairline fracture now -- down your tibia, see?” She dragged her wand across the image of the thicker bone in the lower part of his leg -- he could see it, sort of, when he strained his eyes. A small line, like a crack, slithering down the length of bone, ending just at his ankle.

“That doesn’t seem so bad,” Harry commented.

“You’d be surprised,” was her soft rejoinder. “It’s still not a good idea to move. Right now, your osteoblasts and other cells are creating a callus that the osteoblasts will then convert into new bone as it heals.” Her nose wrinkled. “That’s what I believe Skele-Gro does, anyway. Speeds up that process. Normal remodeling takes months. Yours would probably only take a day.”

“Well I mean, it took a day to regrow my bones _entirely_ ,” he pointed out, a sliver of hope gripping him. “So it ought to take much less time to heal a little thing like that, right?”

Her frown was pensive as she considered this. “It’s not an unreasonable hypothesis. It’d help me if I had a frame of reference as to what sort of fracture you had. And this is dependent upon if my assumption of what Skele-Gro does is even correct in the first place.”

“Worth a try, isn’t it?” Harry sat up again, muscles protesting against his vigor.

“What’s worth a try?”

“The Skele-Gro, obviously!” he laughed, confused that she had to ask. “Was it one of the ones you brewed? Or do you suppose Pomfrey keeps it somewhere else?”

“Harry,” she reproved, her wand slicing through the anatomical image to dismiss it. “No. She already has you on a regimen. It could be dangerous if you overdose.”

“I’m not going to drink the whole bottle!” he scoffed. “I’ve had broken bones loads of times; I know how much is a regular dose.”

“ _Any_ dose after your regular one is an overdose,” she informed him. “What if you caused some sort of ossification reaction that--”

“I don’t know what that is,” he confronted her, point-blank, “but she can’t have dosed me yet; I just woke up!”

“Mediwizards _spell_ potion into patients’ stomachs if they’re unconscious and unable to take it orally,” she argued. “Like an IV.”

Harry’s expression was resolute, even though he began to feel the dread of fighting a losing battle. “Look, Croft-- I have to get out of here--”

“Why, though?” Croft questioned, frustratingly obstinate. Her expression was all wonky again. “I know being in the infirmary isn’t fun, but it’s Sunday. If you have homework needs I’m sure that your friends could drop it by--”

“I have detention, actually,” he lied after only a second of deliberation. “With Filch. And I’m sure you _must_ know he’s not the most merciful person.”

Croft didn’t look like she believed him in the slightest. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Harry.”

He dropped his torso back to the bed with a short huff. “Whatever. Obviously I’m stuck in this bed anyway; Pomfrey will make sure of it.”

“It’s just a day,” Croft reasoned, sounding a great deal like she was getting tired of being in opposition to him. “You need the sleep.”

Harry looked at her, jaw clenching with all the arguments he would have liked to voice, but he didn’t. He saw there was no use in it -- of course she wasn’t going to help him take unauthorized potion when she was so medically-minded herself. Besides, maybe it was better this way; with her gone, she wouldn’t get in trouble for him breaking the rules.

“Guess I am pretty tired,” he capitulated, his deceptive words punctuated by a very real yawn. “At least if I’m asleep, I won’t have to look at this room any longer.”

Maybe he became agreeable too fast, because Croft’s eyes narrowed as she uttered a soft, “Yes.” Her next movements were measured as she traversed the space around his bed, taking the nearby crate in her arms. He watched as she ambled across the room, taking it into Madam Pomfrey’s office.

It was irritating, but at least it confirmed something. She _had_ brewed Skele-Gro.

Croft emerged moments later, smoothing her hands over her robes. “I have to get back to Snape,” she announced. “He’s probably wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

He grimaced in response. “I suppose you shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“No,” she muttered. For what it was worth, however, her expression softened after that. She looked over his bed, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “I’m sorry, Harry. Please feel better soon.”

His mouth twitched into the approximation of a smile. “I’ll do my best,” he replied, wistful. She turned her back, exiting silently through the large wooden doors.

He waited one minute. Then two. After the third, he threw his sheet fully off his body as he sat up on the side of the bed, swinging his legs over while keeping the injured one suspended above the ground. He felt _really_ sore all over, which meant Pomfrey had likely only used pain potion on his leg and nothing else. He could barely feel his leg at all, but he knew he still needed to be careful with it. Despite what he was doing, Harry didn’t actually _want_ to injure himself further.

Alright, he needed a plan. He was still in his Quidditch trousers, and only his undershirt on top. If he was going to properly sneak about without drawing attention later that evening, he’d need his Invisibility Cloak… Lifting his eyes, he spotted his school bag, causing him to blow out a relieved breath. He’d have to thank whoever had grabbed it from his locker.

Next was the matter of the potion, which was a good ten meters away, now. He grabbed his wand from the end table, holding it in both hands as he wracked his mind for a spell that could assist him in this situation. Most of the movement ones were… violent, for the lack of a better term. And he wasn’t so great at self-spells, so trying to make his injured leg feather light was probably going to backfire.

Maybe he didn’t have to think quite that hard, he realized. He just needed something to lean on so he could hop over; he was working against the clock after all. Madam Pomfrey could come back any moment.

A simple _Accio_ brought a chair scraping across the stone floor to him. Leveraging his weight on his left arm, which was clutching the wooden slats firmly, he began making his awkward way over to the office, one quick footstep and one clomping bang of the chair after the other.

Finally, after several painstaking minutes, he reached the crate, and he twisted the chair so he could sit in it beside the counter, breathing hard. No time to waste. He slid the carton of potions into his lap to peruse the contents. Thankfully, everything was labeled, otherwise he would have had quite a nightmare of a time, considering the sheer _amount_ of vials in the crate. Exactly _how long_ had she been brewing for? Twelve hours? It was absurd how much was in there.

He replaced the crate, unstopping the bottle and taking a breath. Ugh, bad choice -- he could smell it already, and he hadn’t even brought it close yet. But Harry knew this was his only chance, and drinking a little gross potion was a small price to pay.

Two small sips. They made him shudder something awful, but he could discern no difference between this brew and any of the other Skele-Gros he’d taken. Good sign.

Harry knew it wouldn’t work immediately, but he had roughly three hours until he had to be at the Headmaster’s office. Until then, he had to lie low, get a message to Ron and Hermione, and somehow not alarm anyone like he’d done the last time he’d mysteriously disappeared from the school. Three hours evading capture with one leg out of commission. Normally it would seem impossible to accomplish, but he was possessed of a strange vigor, springing from some previously untapped well hidden deep inside him.

Despite his injuries, his delirium, his fatigue… Harry felt quite up to the task.

His body still felt heavy when he and Snape arrived in… wherever they were.

Upon entering the Headmaster's office, he had been met with only the Potions Master to greet him. Although, “greet” was a generous term, considering the fact the man hadn’t spoken a single word; meaning, of course, Harry had no introduction to their present occupation. All he knew was that they were once again in an unfamiliar environment, walking at a brisk pace along a moonlit shoreline. His leg was, thankfully, functioning well enough for him to keep up.

Harry sighed. Without Dumbledore to establish the premise of their outing, he felt even more listless than usual. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to stay both unseen and unheard yet again,” he commented toward the ground in front of him, not bothering to frame it like a question.

The ocean breeze picked up Snape’s hair and tossed it over his shoulder in tangled strands. “That won’t be necessary,” the man said, his deep voice carried on alongside the gentle crash of the waves beside them. He did not elaborate further, but the answer itself was still perplexing.

“What, not going to _snap_ later and tell me to shut up?” Harry challenged, folding his arms over his chest as they walked. “You expect me to believe that?”

The man glared at him, then. “I might, if you insist on remaining belligerent.”

“See, that’s what I mean,” he retorted, purposely training his gaze in a direction that excluded Snape’s form.

They both fell silent, boots molding the grass as they went. The evening was very cold, leaving Harry grateful that he’d thought to wear a proper cloak, but his cheeks were numb, his eyes watering as a slight shift of wind sneaked around the frames of his glasses. His arms folded tighter, a chill rippling across his skin.

Ugh, he hated the cold and dark. Even more so since he was forced to skulk about with Snape… Harry just felt so unbearably tired of dealing with the man’s bad temper. All he wanted was to leave. He was anxious to get back to Grimmauld Place before the day ended; he hardly cared about anything else when Snape was unlikely to include him anyway.

As Harry gazed out across the water, he noticed he could not distinguish where the ocean stopped and the sky began. The landscape had a blurry sort of look, as if someone had smeared a bunch of dark paint together to form the approximation of a beach.

They’d started their journey from an innocuous patch of coastline, all rocky outcroppings and wet sand, but no visible destination. Now, they trod on stone and vegetation as the ground beneath them climbed higher, the jagged cliff edge staying close by their side as they approached the first signs of civilization. Albeit, even in the dark, the architecture struck Harry as very old; there was a low stone barrier, uneven but square, which separated them from the silhouettes of three squat lighthouses, all within the same enclosure.

Unable to keep quiet any longer, Harry inquired, “Three lighthouses is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“There are at least four in this area.”

“Okay, but… _why?_ ”

The man said nothing at all and Harry rolled his eyes, cupping his hands over his mouth to breathe hot air onto his chilled fingers. They trudged onward, veering off toward a break in the stone wall and heading in the direction of the nearest lighthouse, which was attached to a blocky structure. His right leg began smarting as they went -- the pain potions Pomfrey had administered must have started to wear off. He winced, but otherwise did not dare alert Snape in word or action. Harry already felt as if he was treading on thin ice with these Order missions. No need to give the man more reasons to call the whole thing off.

When they finally reached the entrance to the building, his leg was aching pretty bad, but still holding together. Snape brandished his wand, using it to unlock the shadowed door with a simple _Alohamora_.

“This is a safehouse, right?” Harry questioned.

“Of a kind.”

“Well, all the others had these fancy sort of things going on. Isn’t it a bit… I don’t know. Insecure? To just have a regular lock on the door?”

Snape cast him an irritated look. “Are you simple? We passed through five warding boundaries on the way here.”

Harry blinked. “What? We did?”

The professor did not grace him with a reply, stepping into the dusty entryway with wandlight held aloft. Harry carried on, looking about at the cold, abandoned interior as they passed through. No furniture, no appliances, no personal effects; it seemed that no one had lived there for a long time.

There was something deeply unsettling about an empty house, Harry decided. The stagnant air curled up in dark corners, forgotten. A house without inhabitants was just a husk, purposeless and hollow. He walked quickly so he wouldn’t have to look at it any longer.

Across a short hall, the lighthouse stairway arose before them. Harry frowned, dreading the trip when he saw how narrow and precarious the spiral was. Snape ascended ahead of him, and, as Harry began walking, he found many of the stairs mouldy and uneven, further jostling his injured leg. Slowly, painfully, he followed after Snape’s wand-light as they both made their way up to the top.

He had to admit, the view of the ocean outside was spectacular, though the windows were dirty and cracked. Snape was nearby, perusing the contents of a low bookcase. As Harry steeled himself to walk normally around the derelict lantern, the man selected a book, smoothing out each page as he flipped past.

“What’s that?” he asked without much hope of an answer.

His assumption proved true, since Snape did indeed stay silent. He was beginning to think that the man was developing a habit of pretending Harry simply wasn’t there. And while that treatment wasn't anything _new,_ it still set him on edge.

“This your summer home or something?” Harry joked without humor, dread compelling him to seek _any_ reaction from the man. “Needs some work, I think.”

Nothing. Snape flipped a page. The quiet was horrible.

Desperate, he ventured a third time, “Is this still--?”

He was cut off by the booming sound of a book slamming shut. “Must every moment be filled with your _wittering,_ Potter?”

He'd anticipated this reaction, but it didn’t feel good to be right. Harry frowned, the pressure in his chest barely lessened by Snape’s reply. “Well, maybe it would help if you actually _answered_ any of my questions.”

“I have,” Snape crisply informed him. “You simply lack the critical thinking to reach any of your own conclusions.”

Harry threw up his hands. “First you tell me I’m stupid for assuming things and doing whatever I want, and now I’m stupid for _not_ doing that?”

The man took out his wand and Harry instantly tensed, but Snape merely turned toward the lantern, swinging his wand in a slow, vertical arc, strong blue light burgeoning within. The lantern screeched to life, brightening the room to such a degree that Harry had to shield his eyes, and it turned as if it were being hand-cranked. Maybe it was -- Snape seemed to be guiding it with his wand, his attention focused on something beyond the cloudy glass in which they were encased. Harry followed his gaze outside, but all he could see was dark swaths of water.

But wait -- as the deep blue light of the lantern swept past the surrounding coastline, Harry could see something in the distance, a shimmering _something_ on the water which flashed into existence only when it was illuminated. Pressing a finger to the glass as he peered closer to get a good look outside, Harry remarked, “ _That’s_ where we’re going, isn’t it?”

The light swept past again, that time slower. Another time, slower still. Was Snape trying to pinpoint it? “It’s off that side, there,” Harry pointed out. “Just between those two bits of rock.”

The professor did not directly respond, but the next time the light came around, he appeared to dwell a little longer on the space Harry had indicated. Sure enough, the object came to sight. It was so far out that Harry had trouble discerning what it was, but it seemed roughly cylindrical.

A thought crept up on him, then. “Er… this might be a good time to mention that I can’t swim.”

Snape fixed him with an impatient stare. “And what would you call your Tri-Wizard excursion, then, Potter?”

“Extreme luck and body transformation,” Harry admitted. Blunt honesty would get his point across more easily; he’d rather not have a lecture from Snape about how Harry drowning was such a _burden._

The man’s expression did not change in the slightest. “Is it in fashion to refer to thievery as ‘luck’?”

Offended, Harry burst out with, “I’m not a thief--!”

Snape’s doubtful hum was overshadowed by a loud meow from Harry’s feet. He flinched, a mixture of instinct and skittishness prompting him to snap his wand in the direction of the sound as he took an automatic step back. Only when his heart had slowed somewhat did he realize that the intruder was simply a regular striped brown cat, although, notably, it was missing a tail. Letting out a breath, Harry grumbled, “Where the hell did _that_ come from?”

“That,” the professor indicated, “is our guide.”

The cat let out a series of mewls at Snape, as if striking up a conversation. The sight was so bizarre that Harry made a face of confusion and distaste, watching on as the professor followed the animal's gentle footfalls back down the stairs as if nothing at all were amiss.

Irksome as it was to discover he had to descend the stairs he had just suffered through, Harry was able to do some creative footwork to avoid further jostling of his leg. Reaching the bottom, his bemused question surfaced. “Why is our 'guide’ a cat, again?”

“The architect of this place wished for its defenses to remain innocuous and unassuming, I would imagine,” Snape replied, droll.

“So, it's not a real cat?” Harry surmised. “It's… something else? Disguised as a stray?”

Snape did not confirm nor deny, so Harry pressed, “What is it, then?”

The professor turned his back in a way that Harry could only describe as _purposeful._ They passed through the shell of the house in crushing silence.

Once they were outside, the cat sauntered into a sharp left, walking directly toward the cliffside. Feeling as if he were in primary school again, playing an extremely odd game of follow-the-leader, he and Snape trailed after, awash in the sea breeze. The freezing cold was a shock to Harry’s system, and he began to shiver in earnest just as the cat paused, sitting at the very top of the rock face, its head dipping as it licked a paw and dragged it across its face.

A whole five seconds passed and Harry was already fed up with the wait. “Maybe you could tell the ‘guide’ to hurry it up!” he expelled at the professor, temper flaring.

The moment he looked back, however, the cat had vanished. He blinked, squinting around them in a frantic effort to locate the stupid animal, but halted his search when he saw Snape approach their guide’s previous perch. Without the slightest hesitation in his step, the man walked _directly off the ledge,_ his fitted robe flapping once about his knees, and disappeared from view.

A cold fear grabbed hold of him, pushing the air out of his lungs. Reason suggested that the older man hadn’t dashed himself on the rocks below, that there was something magical at play, but Harry’s overwrought mind took his sudden isolation to heart. Because wasn't this just what Snape wanted? To make a fool of Harry in order to prove him utterly useless to the Order once and for all? Or worse, to leave Harry behind, vulnerable to whatever servant of Voldemort was lying in wait?

The image of Barty Crouch Jr.’s face swam in his vision; his eyes darted about in an effort to dispel it. Unable to stop himself, Harry approached the cliff’s edge, his breath coming shallow. There was nothing at the bottom but stone and sea, but that was hardly conclusive.

He had his wand gripped so tightly it hurt, staring at the distance. A hundred meters down to the shore, but the cliff was steeply sloped and dotted with sharp outcroppings. He was scared -- _terrified,_ really -- but he had to go, didn’t he? If things didn’t turn in his favor, he could always Apparate back to the top… underage magic laws be damned.

Harry knew the trick had to be magic. Of _course_ he did. But there was still something viscerally horrifying about stepping off solid ground and letting himself fall. When he took the step, his whole body tensed, throat clenched around a scream --

And his feet landed on a solid plank of wood. Thrown off balance by the awkward shift in gravity, Harry stumbled forward, his knees making hard impact with the platform. His first exhale was harsh, laden with a fear that escaped from him, rushed in its departure.

From his surroundings, he first took notice of the sounds. The structure beneath his hands and knees groaned under his weight, the alarming noise signaling age and instability. He could hear water lapping at the edges of something, the sound of cloth fluttering in the wind… and a distinct, high-pitched mewl. Harry lifted his head to lock gazes with the cat guide, its eyes round and unblinking as it lounged nearby, as if it were waiting for him to arrive.

With a groan, he levered himself up, the pain causing sweat to spring to his forehead despite the awful chill. Pushing his glasses back into place, Harry realized he was standing on a boat, the coastline only distantly visible. He didn’t know much about boats, but perhaps he didn’t need to; after all, the spacious top deck upon which he was standing was covered in rust and grime, the wood beneath his feet rotted and wet, and barnacles clung to every exposed surface. During his inspection, Harry’s attention was drawn to an open trapdoor, from which warm orange light was emitting. He drew closer, finding a short ladder leading down to more wood flooring, and gingerly made his way into the lighted belly of the ship.

“Lagging behind, Potter?” Snape sarcastically addressed him. His voice sounded loud in the cramped space.

Harry looked around in awe. The inside of the ship was pristine and comfortable, each curved wall lit by floating lanterns and covered with books. The shelves were so large and cumbersome that they curved over the ceiling as well, layers of tomes suspended above Harry's head as he wandered further. In the center of the cylindrical room were scattered tables, bolted to the floor, and enormous stacks of books, arranged in such an orderly way that they looked like patchwork walls.

Harry was so caught up in his surprise he forgot to be angry for a moment. “It's… a library,” he murmured.

“Yet another astute observation from the _Boy Who Lived_ himself,” Snape drawled, acerbic, eyes glued to the row of book titles he was perusing.

That time, he slanted a glare at the professor. “You could have mentioned not knowing how to swim was a moot point.” When the man didn't respond, Harry continued, “In fact, you _also_ could have mentioned we were meant to take a dive off a cliff!”

Snape slid a tome from the shelf with one finger, cracking open the cover. Harry traversed the space between them, fury building. “Hey!” he shouted, slamming an open hand on the table. “Listen to me!”

The professor shot him a nasty look. “ _Control_ yourself, Potter--”

“No!” he snapped. “If I wanted to be ignored, I would have just gone--” _To the Dursley’s,_ he didn't say. Instead, he ground his teeth together.

But Snape derisively supplied, “To your summer home, perhaps? I seem to recall you being in _favor_ of the change.”

“ _Change?!_ ” Harry was seized by a clipped, disbelieving laugh, placing both hands atop the table and resting his weight on the backs of his fingers. “Right, yeah. _That's_ what it was. Got it in one.”

The professor evidently had nothing to say to that. Harry sighed, taking back in a steady breath to calm himself. Perhaps this would all go smoother if he took Snape's lead and pretended the other man was nothing more than a dirty patch of wall -- unsightly, non-communicative, and best not acknowledged all around.

His eyes stuck on a peculiar object toward the center of the room. It was a pedestal, of a sort… It appeared to be made up entirely of branching coral, reaching upward to chest height. The pillar was irregular and intricate, a collection of polyps and fan-like protrusions, the shapes piled together like a collage. At the top, the mass of interwoven tendrils unraveled to expose a large glass brain, faintly glowing.

Having no desire to resist the impulse, he made his way over to it, examining the thing closely. The brain hummed, its light thrumming as he approached, beckoning. Harry looked over at Snape; the man had his back turned, attention elsewhere. _Good._

He reached out a hand, touching a single finger to the glass. For a moment, nothing happened, but just as he began to think it had been foolish to expect something significant to occur, a scroll of parchment zoomed toward him from the other end of the hull, unraveling itself just above the pedestal.

 _Telepathic Lexicon,_ the title at the top read. Intent, Harry leaned closer, and the brain’s glow grew brighter, illuminating the page.

_I see you’ve been wondering what this little invention of mine is for! The Telepathic Lexicon contains a record of everything in this library, and for what purpose each bit of information could be put to use. To begin your journey, simply do as you have already: lay a hand on the Lexicon, think of a question, and it will supply any information it can think of which might answer your question._

_Take nothing with you when you leave. The contents of this library are disastrous, in the wrong hands._

_Use wisely, my friends._

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

Harry’s eyebrows rose. Dumbledore… made this? Did that mean he was the one who had spelled the entire safehouse? Those five ward boundaries Snape had mentioned, the lighthouse, the hidden boat? The cat, even?

He was struck, not for the first time, by the yawning chasm between his abilities and that of the adults around him. Of course, the Headmaster wasn’t the greatest wizard of their age for nothing, but the gap seemed impossibly wide, considering Harry was meant to beat Voldemort -- a task which even someone as powerful as Dumbledore could not accomplish. With that in mind, how could he even hope to compete?

Hand shaking, he placed it atop the glass brain. The scroll folded up and zoomed away, replaced by a single book, and Harry took hold of it. _The Incomplete Biography of Grindelwald’s Equal, by Edwin Sparrow._ Frowning, he opened the cover, peering curiously at the table of contents. A book entirely about Dumbledore’s life wasn’t quite what he’d been looking for, but it was nonetheless a topic of interest--

“What do you think you are doing?”

Snape had deigned to notice him. However, Harry was feeling vindictive; so, he didn’t say a word, his gaze firmly placed on the pedestal before him. He placed a hand to the glass once more. _What is the cat?_ he thought, hoping the question wasn’t too imprecise.

The book about Dumbledore flew back to its place, and this new question yielded several results, which flew over and lined themselves up for his perusal. Several he could identify as answering a much broader question than he’d meant to ask, such as _Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Felines_ and _100 Pages of Kittens in Teacups_. Since his hand was still on the pedestal, the moment he determined a book wasn’t needed, it left the lineup to go back to its place.

Just as he was narrowing it down to the more relevant texts, Snape’s voice accosted him again. “Potter,” he seethed, the name like poison on his lips, “ _What_ do you think you are _doing?_ ”

Harry went on with his business as if the man hadn’t spoken at all. Served him right, didn't it? For putting Harry through hell? Maybe it was stupid to provoke the beast like this, but any opportunity to give as good as he got was too tempting to pass up.

There was a tome before him, titled _Something Interesting, An Anthology of Obscure Sorcery_. Intrigued, he reached out a hand to take it, but the next moment, the soles of his shoes scraped against the wood panels as he was unceremoniously moved several meters away. His leg twinged. As the books all zoomed back to their places following Harry’s removal, he cast his darkest glare in Snape's direction.

The older man looked livid. “This is a repository, not a playground--”

“Do I look like I'm 'playing’?” Harry lobbed back.

“Clearly, your stupidity knows no bounds,” the professor snarled, “since you seem to think it wise to handle magical books while being entirely unable to use magic yourself.”

“I'm not _unable!_ ” was his heated counter. “I can handle _myself--!_ ”

“-- and in the process expose the location of a remote safehouse to the Ministry?” Snape broke in, mocking. “Brilliant idea, Potter.”

Harry folded his arms. “Maybe if you bothered to tell me where we even _are,_ I could make more informed decisions!”

“The Calf of Man,” the professor replied, his tone derisive. “I presume now that you are _well informed,_ you will refrain from disturbing magical artefacts in future.”

“Like you care about artefacts,” he spat, recalcitrant. “You just don't want me to disturb _you!_ ”

Snape's lip curled.

A silence passed between them as they shared looks of contempt. Harry looked away first.

The professor returned to the table and Harry sighed, keeping himself rooted in place. Was this what the entire night was going to be like? Was this what _every_ mission was going to be like, for the rest of his Hogwarts career?

Was this… what Dumbledore wanted? For Harry to be tread on and beaten down by Snape? For Harry to feel like a waste of space and time, merely an obstruction to the _real_ Order members? Was this meant to be some sort of life lesson? Or was there no point to this at all, and it was merely an exercise in keeping Harry occupied, a way to forestall his complaints?

He was tired. So, _so_ tired. And rest was a long way off.

It didn’t take long for boredom to set in, and with it came anger. Why should he be forced to stand around and do nothing? This entire day had been rubbish from start to finish! The last thing he needed was to be pushed around by Snape. Harry was _done._

With that thought in mind, he sauntered right back up to the glowing brain, placing his hand on it once more. Several tomes flew in his direction, their titles matching his mood perfectly: _Pulverize by Timothy Gorm_ , _Compendium of Revenge_ , and _Tricks & Traps for Troublesome Twats, _ written by someone named Jane Withers.

This time, Snape’s attention was drawn immediately. “Are you deaf as well as brainless, Potter?”

“Nope.”

“Then step away from the Lexicon.”

“I’m not touching the books,” Harry slyly informed him. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Snape's glare was withering.

Harry turned back to the tomes hovering beside him. Wondering if he could simply use a mental command to open them, he tried it out--

“Potter.”

The sound of his name in Snape’s voice was grating. He wished he could unhear it.

“ _Potter._ ”

“ _What?_ ” Harry barked, hands clenching into fists as the books before him stayed stubbornly closed.

“Make yourself useful.” This was said with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to obedience. From the corner of his eye, he saw Snape place a length of parchment atop the table, firmly pinning it in place with a finger. “These are the books I require.”

Harry didn’t bother moving; he wasn’t particularly keen to be ordered about like a servant.

The professor was moving back toward the other papers he’d gathered when he added, “Unless you would prefer standing in place for the next hour.”

His tone held all the dry sarcasm inherent to his tactics as a teacher. _Mince your leeches at once; unless it was your intention to douse your classmates in acid, in which case you may carry on._ Harry turned a look of disgust and hatred right at Snape, but the man’s back faced him squarely, implacable.

"I thought I wasn't allowed to touch the books," he goaded. Snape infuriatingly didn't take the bait.

He kept up his stationary defiance for a minute more, but it became apparent that his silent protest simply wasn’t going to work. Snape seemed entirely unperturbed, which was an irritation of itself, but more importantly, Harry couldn’t stand to be so still, or so quiet. It very quickly began to drive him mad.

What began with a fidget led to a short round of pacing, which in turn, against his pride and better judgment, led him right up to the table to inspect the note Snape had indicated. It helped that the professor had turned away and no derisive sneers or triumphant smirks were directed at him. As the boat drifted sluggishly through placid sea, Harry’s anger vanished, leaving behind a vacuum, an utter absence of feeling nearly as staggering as his fury had been.

Examining the list, it seemed only two books were required. _Cracks in the Fortress, by Augustyn Kowalczyk_ and _Haunting, by Red Alice_.

If there was any rhyme or reason to the arrangement of the bookshelves, he couldn’t discern it. The first shelf he looked at was full of children’s books which were so old that the spines were falling apart. The second was a grouping of plant-based handwritten notes sandwiched between some books about fine dining etiquette and recipes for self-icing cakes. Another housed travel guides for all sorts of places Harry had never heard of.

Surrounded by an endless array of knowledge, Harry quickly became overwhelmed. He cast a glance at the professor, who was then seated on a low stool, poring over several sheaves of paper, a monstrous stack of information at his side. Asking for help wasn't an option; the man was more likely to sabotage than assist. Besides, he wasn’t keen on being berated for faltering on a task Snape had set him on in the first place.

Harry glared at the note in his hand. Snape had made it clear, time and again, that he counted Harry as nothing more than interference. But he _wasn't_. Or, at least, he didn't want to be. And if he was going to prove it, he needed to provide a tangible, undeniable contribution, else Snape would surely convince everyone in earshot that Harry's only talent was getting in the way. If he could do even this small thing… perhaps that would help change Dumbledore's mind about Harry's usefulness, if only a little.

And so, he started with the titles. _Haunting_ seemed likely to be related to ghosts and spirits. Easy enough. But _Cracks in the Fortress_ was trickier; it could be a book about war strategy, history, patching holes… any strange topic was fair game in a library curated by Albus Dumbledore.

However, Harry mused, Snape wouldn't be looking for a method to patch holes unless the ship they stood on happened to be sinking; he would be looking for books that contained pertinent information. And the most pressing issues the Order was facing were… Barty Crouch Jr. and the warding at Privet Drive.

That thought caused a shiver to ripple across his skin, but Harry tried his best to ignore it, making his way around the room to search for related texts. Harry's leg gave a sharp pang as he was rooting around and he did his best to keep his weight on the other foot. He found a section full of books about the undead, but could not find _Haunting_ among their number. Then, he found a section dedicated to warding, and it was there he paused.

The section was huge. The hundreds of books worth of material was surprising enough, but what Harry found even more astonishing was that, even though he did not spot the specific book he was looking for, there were five numbered texts by Augustyn Kowalczyk on the subject… and an empty slot in the center.

Harry grimaced, his ignited suspicions carrying him over to the opposite end of the professor's table. “You have the books already, don't you,” he intoned, pairing his words with a hateful glower.

Snape spared him the barest of glances. “What is it that drew you to that conclusion?”

“ _Cracks in the Fortress_ is part of a collection,” Harry emphasized, “and it's _mysteriously_ missing one installment.”

“Mysterious, indeed,” the man replied with feigned surprise. “Perhaps you should investigate this conundrum further.”

It came to Harry with bright clarity that Snape had set him on this empty task just to keep him out of the way; it was a diversion, and nothing more.

“You've had them since before I got here,” he concluded, his voice gone hollow. “This was your plan from the start.”

Snape stared at him, saying nothing. That was confirmation enough.

Harry fixed his eyes on the wood grain of the table. “You don't even need them, do you?”

“On the contrary, I do,” the professor admitted in a voice so neutral that Harry squinted at him suspiciously.

“You're not even looking at them,” Harry accused.

“Official documents from the Ministry require a great deal more time to sift through,” he explained, setting the tips of his fingers atop a stack of pages for emphasis. “Books generally have the good grace to provide a table of contents.”

Off-kilter, Harry's gaze traveled across the array. “What do you need Ministry documents for?” he ventured, cautious.

“These records detail the circumstances of one Bartemius Crouch Jr.'s repossession and incarceration on the twenty-seventh of June, nineteen ninety four.”

Harry was surprised, not only to receive a real answer for once, but by the substance of it. “Er… repossession?”

“Of his soul,” Snape elaborated, candlelight barely illuminating his dark eyes. “The Ministry's attempt at fashioning the grotesque Dementor's Kiss into something more palatable to its benefactors.”

He couldn't help but shiver in response. “Right.”

“According to these documents,” the professor supplied, “the young Mr. Crouch was divested of his soul and left to rot in Azkaban. It is widely rumored that soulless persons are unable to perform even the most basic functions for survival and, as such, their bodies die shortly thereafter.”

“Guess that rumor is rubbish, then.”

“Not necessarily,” Snape remarked, pulling a leather bound book from one of his stacks. Harry's lips twisted in irritation when he caught a glimpse of the cover: _Haunting by Red Alice_.

He opened to a chapter in the middle. “This journal contains research conducted by a purveyor of illegal potion ingredients. She was, for a time, interested in the trade of human parts.”

Harry grimaced. “Lovely.”

“In this account, she details a time in which she came into possession of a soulless man by purchasing the body from an employee who worked at Azkaban,” Snape continued, seeming fully in the midst of a macabre lecture. “The Ministry does not keep further record of those people without souls, as they are considered effectively deceased, and she was thus able to acquire the body with relative ease.”

“Wait, there are people who _work_ at Azkaban?” Harry questioned with a frown.

Snape stared at him, and Harry inwardly cringed, awaiting a cutting remark. However, oddly, it did not come. “You in fact are already acquainted with someone who has,” the man pointed out, tone dry. “Though it comes as no surprise someone like Arthur Weasley would not mention it.”

“What?” Harry choked out. “Mr. Weasley worked at _Azkaban?!_ ”

“Yes,” Snape confirmed, disinterested.

“Why--?”

“I suspect you will have to ask him yourself,” the professor interrupted. Harry fell silent, his unease returning.

Snape turned a page in the book before continuing: “When this woman received the body, she discovered that, while it was lacking a mind and will of its own, it did, in fact, still possess automatic function. Its heart still beat, its lungs drew breath, and it could yet process food and drink, despite being unable to nourish itself.”

Remembering what Croft had said, Harry ventured, “She spelled it into the stomach?”

“Quite,” Snape replied, an eyebrow raised. “In effect, this specimen she had procured was an unprecedented boon to her business. A human form without a human inside, but still invariably alive… It was harvestable for decades, regenerated repeatedly with potions until her greed brought about the body's eventual demise. Had she been more careful, it likely could have subsisted long into old age.”

“So…” Harry's brow crinkled. “What you're saying is, even though Barty Crouch Jr. doesn't have a soul, someone could be keeping his body alive to… I don't know, use it for Polyjuice? Like what happened to Moody?”

“Presumably,” the professor remarked, closing the book with a dusty thud. “The Headmaster ruled out the possibility of his being reanimated in some fashion. Inferi are debatably intelligent, but not perfect recreations, and zombies are much like the soulless bodies Dementor's leave behind-- nothing more than the shape of a person, lacking their mind.”

“And he looks and acts like himself,” Harry concluded, troubled.

Snape hummed an acknowledgement. “As for the matter of warding at Privet Drive,” he commented, standing. “There is no such substantial documentation.”

“Hm.” He didn't want to talk about it. Not particularly eager to unpack his mixed feelings just then.

“There is, however, precedent for speculation.”

Harry frowned. “Let me guess, it’s all in the other book,” he predicted, folding his arms over his chest.

The professor’s expression was unreadable, but he said, “In truth, _Cracks in the Fortress_ has very little to say about blood bond wards, but its slim observations were nonetheless… interesting.”

“Blood bond?” Harry questioned, the phrase feeling sort of unpleasant on his tongue.

“That is the brand of warding on your summer home,” Snape informed him, each of his words precise. “It should come as no surprise that, considering the ward required a _death_ to commence, it is considered blood magic.”

It made sense. Of course it did. He’d known for ages that he was being protected by his mother’s sacrifice. But having it laid out like that, in such simple and detached terms… It made his skin crawl. “It’s… isn’t that like… _dark_ magic?”

“Yes,” the professor confirmed.

“Dark magic is illegal,” Harry recited, feeling strange having to state the obvious.

“The Dark Arts are illegal, but I imagine the Ministry would have a difficult time outlawing dark magic outright,” Snape commented, an ironic edge to his tone.

“Why?”

The man rose an eyebrow. “They would have to arrest every magical child on the continent.”

Harry spluttered, “What?!”

Snape seemed annoyed that he was belaboring this point, but explained, “Instinctive magic, or ‘accidental magic’ as it is known colloquially, is a subset of dark magic. And dark magic itself is generally defined as any magic with an unquantifiable element.”

He frowned, still greatly confused. “What on Earth does that mean?”

“Joy and sadness, love and hate, the nebulous nature of the human soul,” the man listed. “Those elements which produce strange magic that is neither wholly controllable nor understandable by logical means. By contrast, the Dark Arts are defined as the direct manipulation of those sacred elements, or an attempt to substitute them to produce similar results.”

“So, because the wards weren’t really made by, y’know, casting a spell or whatever, they’re dark magic?” Harry ventured.

“There is plenty of common magic that does not require foolish wand waving,” came Snape’s dry retort. “The blood bond is considered dark magic because it is unable to be understood-- There is no possible way to replicate its effect in any consistent fashion.”

Harry wondered why no one had ever thought to mention any of this to him. He supposed it wasn’t strictly necessary to understand the situation, to know that his mother had died to protect him. But it seemed so much more… _momentous,_ knowing how mysteriously it had come about. Knowing how her love and magic had entwined, solidified into an impenetrable wall between him and those who wanted him dead.

No wonder wizards and witches alike were so fascinated by his survival. It had come on the coattails of some truly extraordinary magic.

After what must have been a prolonged silence, Snape cut into his thoughts. “Despite the strength and rarity of such protections, there is a known… loophole, of sorts.”

Harry grimaced, his thoughts disrupted. “What--? Really? If there’s a loophole, then why was it so important for me to stay in the wards all this time?!”

“All wards have loopholes,” the man countered. “Just as all defenses have a weakness.”

“Okay, _sure,_ ” Harry conceded, his shoulders lifting with the force of his sigh. “But they’re supposed to be-- I don’t know… the _best_ wards, right?”

“They are,” Snape said, crisp. “That does not make them _infallible_.”

“I know that,” Harry insisted, though that was news to him. “So… what? What’s the loophole?”

“The circumstances of blood bond wards are very clear,” the professor began, “as they as are formed purely by instinctive magic, deeply rooted in the protection of the home in particular. However, those protections are simply meant to prevent the cruel and bloodthirsty from stepping foot on the property. If someone who meant no harm crossed the threshold, they would find the house quite bereft of additional fortifications.”

That was a wonder, considering the Dursleys managed to enter that home _every day_ without problem. But Harry wasn’t likely to make mention of _that_ to Snape.

“What, so anyone who just walks in the house can change the wards?” Harry balked. “How is that a ‘little’ loophole? Seems like a huge one to me!”

Snape’s glare indicated he did not appreciate Harry’s outburst. “The ward itself is of such unfathomable power that its workings cannot simply be _overwritten_ by random passers-by,” the man informed him. “Any attempts to cast wards near it are often swallowed up by the infinite energy on which the blood bond sustains itself. It would take a wizard of _immense_ talent, and an iron will, to change anything at all.”

“But you’re saying… it would have to be someone who didn’t mean any harm.”

“Just because no harm was intended does not mean no harm has been done,” the professor clarified. “But yes, it seems likely that our saboteur is at the very least acquainted with you.”

“Well,” Harry said, “maybe it was Mad-Eye Moody.”

Snape’s glare was withering. “I said immense talent, not drunken dexterity.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of that response, though the tone in which it was said put him on the defensive. “Well-- it’s not Dumbledore, obviously, and… and Moody made a point to give the Dursleys a scare last summer…”

“I highly doubt the man has ever cast a ward the whole of his life.”

A thought struck Harry, then. A _brilliant_ one which tugged the grim tilt of his lips into a smile. “Remus,” he breathed. “It has to be Remus!”

Snape’s tone was as sour as Harry’s was elated. “That is as baseless as it is absurd.”

“No it isn’t!” Harry argued. “Look-- he was one of the ones who confronted the Dursleys at King’s Cross, he doesn’t mean me harm, and he’s the warding expert for the Order--”

“That is a pity title, awarded to him for the simple fact that he lacks any other talent.”

Harry couldn’t possibly let that stand. “Remus was excellent at Defense! Without him, I never would have been able to cast a Patronus at all, much less--!” His words hitched in his throat, strangled as they were overcome by a searing, white-hot pain shooting up his leg. It was sharp; the sort of pain that grappled your attention and refused to let go. His body bent into a heavy lean onto the tabletop, papers crunching beneath his elbow, as he clenched his eyes shut, waiting, _hoping_ , for the ache to pass as it had so many times that night.

It refused.

His concentration was difficult to penetrate, but Snape managed it, his voice a loud bark nearby. “Potter?”

His tongue felt swollen. Eyelids fluttering open, the first thing to greet him was the harsh glare of the candlelight. It took a few moments of blinking before his vision cleared and he swallowed.

For what it was worth, the pain was ebbing. His leg felt hot, and it pulsed in a familiar, disconcerting way, like his heartbeat struggling underneath his muscles. It was just a spasm, and it would go away. He could deal with it.

“Nothing,” he blurted out an answer to a question that wasn’t asked, the words squirming out from his clenched throat. “It’s fine, just--”

A shout surged from him, the force of it enough to break him apart. He didn’t understand it. He’d just tried to shift his weight to his other leg and--

His knees buckled under his weight. Losing his balance entirely, he crashed to the rotted floor, the pain unbelievable as his leg reignited with the fall. In a haze, he felt a presence beside him, hovering close by. A harsh _Lumos_ bathed the floorboards with light, but it was a single, sharp word which roused him. “Where?”

Harry squinted hard, putting a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sudden brightness. “It’s _fine,_ just give me a--”

“ _Where?_ ” the professor snapped, his voice grown further severe.

Too tense to argue, Harry pointed to his leg, keeping his sweat-slicked forehead in his hand. He hardly paid attention to what Snape was doing, Harry's breathing loud in his own ears. Now that he was still once more, the pain was dimming again, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't about to try moving around again.

“Potter…” His name sounded like a warning.

Harry took his hand away from his eyes, looking down. He wished he hadn’t. His leg existed as one long bruise, worse than it had been before, but the flow of blood reached an apex just underneath his knee; a piece of bone, splintered and jagged, tented a large patch of his skin as it attempted to break free. The white protrusion peeked out, wearing his skin as a cloak as it tore through, streaks of blood sweating from its crown. Worse, there were other parts of his calf that were uneven and bumpy, showing through under the impossible amounts of inflammation, threatening to do the same.

Snape, in his crouched position beside him, looked murderous.

“What?” Harry questioned weakly, feigning ignorance. He had a suspicion that he knew the exact source of the problem.

The professor's eyes narrowed. “I know what an overdose of Bone Restorative looks like, you imbecile.”

Admitting he had purposely taken it would also mean an admission of lying and thievery. He didn't want it to get back to Croft, and he certainly didn't want to be barred from future Order activities because of it.

“Maybe Madam Pomfrey made a mistake,” Harry commented, staring at the wound.

“She is not the type to miscalculate,” was the man's counter.

“She's still _human_.”

“Something tells me her story is likely to differ from yours.”

Harry pulled in a harsh breath as the bit of bone stretched against his flesh when he flexed his toes. “Why do you care?” he challenged through gritted teeth. “I’ll deal with it. It's--”

The sight of his mangled bone was upsetting, but the smell of blood was _nauseating_. Harry wouldn't normally react that terribly to something so small, but he'd felt frayed at the edges already, even before he'd done in his leg.

“That wound requires immediate attention--” When Harry opened his mouth to cut in, Snape qualified: “-- from a _professional,_ not an arrogant _child_.”

“I'm not being _arrogant--_ ”

“Refusing a healer when your bones are growing out of your skin is foolhardy and, yes, _arrogant,_ Potter--”

“Fine!” Harry erupted,  “I'll go to the stupid healer! Happy now?!”

“Not in the least,” Snape’s retort rode on a sneer.

Harry grasped hold of the table beside him, muscles in his arms straining as he lifted himself up, all his weight on his uninjured leg. The effort drew a pained grunt from him, and he wobbled on his tired, heavy limbs.

“What are you doing?” the professor snapped, impatient.

“Leaving, _obviously,_ ” Harry shot back.

“That does not require you to stand.”

“Yeah, well--”

“Potter, cease this pitiful endeavor _at once,_ before you injure yourself further!”

He grit his teeth, frustrated. Humiliated. Afraid. Agonized. _Exhausted_. It was too bad he wasn't the sort to give up; his life might have been a lot easier if he was.

Harry finally raised himself atop one leg, the muscles in his arms protesting as he steadied. “Alright, how do we get out of--?”

A loud meow sounded behind him, giving him such a start that he nearly lost his balance again. The bloody cat was back at it. Harry knew it was probably a masterpiece of magic, but all he could really feel about it was creeped out.

“The guide will allow Disapparition,” Snape commented, still sounding annoyed.

“Great,” Harry grunted. “What's that going to do to my leg?”

“Other than what you have done already?”

He shot a look at the man. “I didn't do anything.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Not my problem,” was Harry's waspish retort, the pain further weakening his already questionable control of his mouth. “So? We going or what?”

Snape let out a breath through his considerable nose before flicking his wand, returning all the books and papers he'd amassed to their places. Harry closed his eyes again, his head feeling heavy and unwieldy on the precarious perch of his neck. He felt rather than heard Snape's approach, as if even the air around the man was repulsed by him.

The candles guttered right before they left, and Harry thought he heard a plaintive meow follow them to Grimmauld Place.

Fortunately, when they arrived in the dismal sitting room, there was no cat to be seen. _Un_ fortunately, Harry's leg exploded with another throb of agony from the Apparition. Putting a hand over his mouth, he suppressed a shout, leaning against the back of the sofa.

When he managed to recover, still miraculously standing, he saw Snape in profile, standing sentry beside the fire. His shrewd eye landed on Harry, an order coming swiftly after: “ _Sit._ ”

Mind in a haze, he did as he was told. The sofa was hard and creaky, and Harry fidgeted, nervous. “Um, before we go back to Hogwarts--”

“We are not returning until your leg is sorted,” the man declared, tucking his wand away in his robe.

Surprised, Harry said, “I thought I would go back to Madam Pomfrey?”

“This is out of her purview,” Snape remarked. “I have sent for the Order medic, who should arrive presently.”

Order medic? _Who?_ He’d spent weeks at Grimmauld Place, watching members come and go, and he’d never heard of anyone among their number who was a healer! In fact, if he were asked to make a guess, he’d have pegged Madam Pomfrey, but evidently that wasn’t correct.

His eyes locked on the Floo, waiting for the tell-tale flare to illuminate the space. However, the hollow rumbling of footsteps commanded his attention. His gaze drawn to the hallway, Harry leaned forward with anticipation to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger but, no sooner had he done so then the nearby grandfather clock burst open, the sound so sudden and loud that Harry had taken an alarmed hold of his wand. Hinges rattling, he saw a lithe old woman step out of it, brushing dust from her shoulders with an expression of distaste.

“This best be debilitating, Severus.” Her German accent was stark as she addressed the man, brushing off the dark leather bag she was carrying. “I still have intake paperwork to finish.”

The woman straightened herself, closing the portal she’d come through behind her, and Harry got a proper look for the first time. Clad in green, collared robes, cinched at the waist with a belted sash, she looked just as all the other healers Harry had ever seen, except for the large silver pin below her shoulder in the shape of a salamander. She was older, certainly, with a weathered, flyaway pixie cut composed of greyscale curls; perhaps a tad younger than Professor McGonagall, but not by much. And her features, while not particularly unusual or malevolent, still struck Harry as imposing and severe. Her wide, sharp almond-shaped eyes peered about the space, assessing, and the sight of it made him feel a bit nervous, like she might reprimand him at any moment.

Snape answered her with a scowl. “See for yourself,” he instructed, arms folding.

He felt like flinching when she approached, but she didn’t touch him. Moreover, she didn’t even bend down to examine him. Her eyes drew to the problem area in a manner distinctly practiced, before she scowled, accosting the professor with a derisive: “Is this a joke?”

Snape glared at her.

“You bring me out here for this obvious diagnosis?” she scoffed. She began to turn away from them both, heading toward the clock. “You already know. Take him to the hospital.”

“I am not asking for a diagnosis,” the professor sneered.

The woman stopped, turning toward them again. “Take him to the _hospital_.”

“I think you know that is not possible.”

“No, I don’t,” the woman challenged him in a way Harry had rarely seen before. “I see no reason whatsoever to waste my time on him when he can easily and _properly_ be taken care of elsewhere.”

“Albus was quite clear that Potter must not draw undue attention, or be publicly seen anywhere but the Hogwarts environs.”

“Is that so,” she uttered, deadpan.

Harry expected Snape to respond in kind, but instead his eyes settled on her, intractable. She was just as unmoving, her gaze boring into his with an energy that managed to feel both subdued and intense.

He couldn’t say how long the two adults stood at an impasse before it was broken by movement.

“ _You,_ ” suddenly the woman was addressing Harry, her strides long as she crossed the room again, “lay on your back. Quickly.”

He obeyed in haste and silence, cowed by the harsh staccato of her commands. The stressed beat of his heart accelerated further when she opened up her case, which contained an array of metal potion vials, a shrinkable broom tucked into a mesh pocket, and various odd contraptions he'd never seen before.

“What are you going to do?” he questioned her, tone strained.

“Fix this,” was the woman’s gruff reply as she roughly grappled Harry’s leg. “Hold _still._ ”

The urge to wriggle away was overwhelming; he had to fight against his muscles to keep them in place. There was something instinctual to his reactions that the situation didn’t necessarily call for, he knew, but that didn’t stop his anxious fidgeting, nor did it prevent goosepimples from creeping up his arms.

Her face was set on a grimace. “Did you give him a neutralizer?” she addressed Snape without looking at him.

The man snorted. “No, I don’t keep obscure brews on hand.”

“Then perhaps you should go _get_ one,” she scathed, “so he doesn’t get any more growths while I shave off the others.”

“I hardly think--”

“ _That’s_ obvious,” she cut in with a voice as smooth as silk. “Now, are you going to continue saying whatever fool thing comes to mind, or are you going to fetch the potion?”

Snape’s expression was the epitome of vexed as he whirled on the spot, tossing a snappish chunk of Floo powder into the fire and disappearing a moment later. Harry’s fear spiked, radiating through his limbs like a physical pain; he wouldn’t have called Snape’s presence _comforting,_ but it was at least familiar. Now, he was alone with a stranger. It felt like Lovelle all over again, except this time he hadn’t remotely signed up for it.

“What d’you mean by ‘shave off’?” Harry asked, his voice a horrified whisper.

“What I said,” the woman asserted, impatient. With a wave of her wand, Harry felt an area around his thigh tighten, constricting around the entire upper portion of his leg. She drew the tip of her wand over the lower, swollen portion of his leg, and an image shimmered to existence above it. It looked like the spell Croft had used earlier in the day, but much more detailed. He could see it, then -- the extent of the damage done. Gnarled bits of bone curled and grew, like tumors, along the length of original bone. It had more of the appearance of a root, curling tendrils hoisting themselves at all angles in search for escape. Harry swallowed.

“Had a whole second full dose, did you?” the woman predicted, her accent somehow thicker than it was before.

It was a moment before he found his voice again. “That's… er, how come it normally stops growing with one dose, but two does… _that?_ ”

“It is just what happens,” the woman told him, dismissive.

“What’s a neutralizer?” He blurted the question as if he were grasping hold of a life preserver.

“It gets rid of the bone restorative still left in your system,” she explained, “so that it won’t continue to cause growths.”

 _Finally,_ an actual answer. Harry let out a breath, slightly depressurized. “Um, can I ask who you are?” he inquired, subdued.

She didn’t speak. Instead, her attention was drawn to the bag beside the sofa, where she reached in and grabbed a couple items. A silver plate, a towel…

Then, she glanced over her shoulder, scowling. “Where is that cursed _Nachtkrapp?_ ”

As if she had summoned him, Snape emerged from the grate, wreathed with green flame and expression markedly foul.

“ _Wenn man den Teufel nennt,_ ” the woman murmured before throwing her arm out, expectant, to the man. “Here.”

Snape passed it off with an aggressive flair, resuming his dark corner by the fireplace, his manner distinctly dismissive.

To Harry's surprise, the potion's taste was actually pleasant, the flavor a subtle caramel and nutmeg. However, it started up a brief, but intense, burning sensation in his leg. He winced, attempting to hand back the vial, but the medic was too occupied or, perhaps, too unconcerned.

“All right Mr. Potter,” she finally addressed him after finishing her makeshift workstation. She turned to him and he noticed her unstop a second vial, the silvery sheen of the metal glinting in the firelight. She presented it to him, but, as he reached to grab it, her hand lifted to deter him. The expression on her face was truly unsettling; her previous severity paled in comparison.

“Do you understand what this is?” she asked him, pointed.

He’d taken enough of them to recognize them by smell alone. “A potion for pain.”

Her nod was slight. “ _Ja, sehr gut._ A potion for pain.” Her gaze turned sharp. “But do you think you deserve it?”

For a moment, he thought he hadn't heard her correctly. “What?”

Her tongue laved over her bottom lip as the corners of her mouth upturned marginally in an amused smile. “You did a stupid thing here, boy. A very stupid thing. Do you think people should be rewarded for doing stupid things?”

His stomach dropped as he caught on to her meaning. Was it a test, or an act of cruelty? Perhaps she wasn't a medic for the Order at all; he certainly couldn't trust Snape's word on the matter.

If he was to be punished, so be it, but he still wouldn't say a word to confirm Snape's suspicions.

"I didn't do anything," he doubled down on his lie, the words falling from his mouth, automatic.

Her fingers curled around the bottle, the plummet of her hand falling in time with the frown that pulled at her mouth. “That is not what I asked.”

"So?" Harry replied, belligerent, turning away from her piercing stare.

He could feel her eyes raking over him; it made his skin crawl. “Everything in this Mediwizard’s Satchel belongs to St. Mungo’s, which, in turn, is overseen by the British Ministry. This vial-- _each drop_ must be accounted for,” she explained, each word exact. “And with the consideration that I cannot give the _actual_ reason for its usage -- Mr. Potter, if you cannot be honest to me, why should I lie for you?”

Harry had no reply. What could he say? Unbidden, his gaze flicked to Snape, his mind going back to the sacrifices which Order members were forced to make. It wasn’t just Aurors, was it? All kinds of people were breaking rules and bending truth, risking everything to combat the greatest evil of their time.

And here was Harry, a child playing at adulthood. Just as Snape had said.

Harry's unfocused eyes landed on his exposed wound, listless and resigned. "Get on with it, then," he murmured, folding his arms.

The sound of the vial colliding with the silver tray clattered beside him. The woman, when she shifted, gripped her wand tightly in her hand and perched over his leg like a scavenger on carrion.

He waited for some sort of warning. A sign to brace himself. Eyes trained to the hard lines of her face in anticipation, Harry waited.

Instead, focused on the image floating just above his knee, the woman made a large swipe across the air with her wand. With it, he felt the sickening pull of something jerking inside his calf, then the scorching pain that erupted as something _else_ dislodged. He immediately flinched back, legs instinctively curling inward.

“Hold _still,_ ” she warned, pulling him back into position.

He tensed, but regretted it; his leg ached in protest. Harry grit his teeth against the woman's harsh treatment, but said nothing.

Again, his stare sought Snape, who was faced toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, and surveying the wall hangings with a look of profound boredom. Harry knew he would receive no sympathy from that quarter, and perhaps it was for the best that Snape's ire wasn't directed his way, but it still stung to be entirely ignored.

He heard another clatter on the tray. Eyes drawn there, Harry had the revolting sight of a large chunk of his bone, covered in blood and strips of muscle, seared into his mind. He looked away quickly, dread churning his stomach.

It continued on like that, twelve more times. He couldn’t say why he’d started counting, other than a means to distract himself from the pain. His delirium mounted with each shard of bone that collected on the tray, until the sizable pile weighed down his resilience to its breaking point.

The agony had dulled to a molten thrum; he couldn’t focus well enough to remember how much it hurt.

And somewhere in that in-between, he felt the smooth neck of a bottle press urgently up against his lips, strong hands tilting his head back and forcing him to swallow.

How long it took to rouse him back to consciousness after the pain began to ebb, he couldn't say, though it was just in time to observe the medic's arduous wandwork as she started in on a more intricate task. Sweat accumulated on her brow as she worked her arm in a sawing motion, her eyes peeled to the image as she sanded down one of the leftover knolls of bone. The magic crackled with every swipe.

Her sculpting took what felt like hours. His leg was limp and useless against her hand as the woman sat back on the floor and let out a breath.

“ _Endlich,_ ” she announced, breathless.

Harry's voice sounded dull to his own ears. "S’it over?"

Her answer was nothing more than a grunt as she leaned forward, wiping the sweat on her temples on her sleeve as she went to banish the bone fragments on the tray. Moments after, she examined his leg again, twisting it in her hands to get a look at it from all angles.

“How does it feel?” she prompted. “When I move it, do you feel anything sharp? Tearing?”

He shook his head, the motion slow and meandering.

“Good,” she sighed. “Keep off it for a few days. The muscle needs to heal. Ask the school matron to provide tissue and blood replenisher. After the pain is bearable make sure to walk on it often to exercise it. _Verstanden?_ ”

"Yeah." He didn't look at her.

He heard her murmur a spell and observed as the open wound on his leg stitched closed, seamless. Afterwards, he heard her shuffle around as she gathered her things back into her bag. The air shifted as she rose to her feet with cracking joints and a tired exhale; her next words were directed elsewhere. “You have it from here, Severus?”

"Of course."

Harry drew his knees up to his chest, propping his chin against the uninjured one. There was no pain, but he did feel a touch nauseous, his face hot and flushed.

She appeared distracted with organizing her pack, but she addressed the professor again, off-handed. “Ah, I was going to let you know tomorrow, but I will have that sample you asked for by Friday.”

Snape's tone was supercilious. "You realize time is an object, for this research--"

“No, _of course_ I wouldn’t,” the woman droned on, sardonic. Then, more seriously, she added: “This was the soonest I could _find_ one. If you knew anything about how hard these things are to track down--”

"I am _aware,_ " he snapped, impatient. "Very well. Friday, then, Tenenbaum."

"Tenenbaum…?" Harry found himself echoing the word, curiosity piercing through his hazy consciousness.

The two adults, surprised to hear him speak, looked his way. The woman’s eyebrow raised. “Yes. Wil Tenenbaum.”

It was uncanny, now that she mentioned it, how much she looked like the Defense professor. Her features were just as minute, just as strict, just as distinctly pretty. Their principle difference was that the Professor Tenenbaum knew how to smile.

"I know that name," he eventually supplied, vague.

Tenenbaum and Snape’s expressions mirrored one another, both bewildered that Harry would share something so inane. They glanced at each other; Tenenbaum tilted her head.  
  
“Friday,” she repeated.

Snape’s head jerked into a tight nod.

The woman turned to approach the clock; Harry’s head dipped to watch her leave.

He spoke again, feeling like a passive observer to his clumsy probing. “Do you know someone named Bridgette--”

“Remember,” she interjected, glancing over her shoulder. “Let it heal. I do not want to see you again.”

She was grinning; it was a bit offset on her face. Not at all friendly, but cordial enough to shut him up. Harry nodded.  
  
He could see the blood on her arms -- _his_ blood -- when she reached up to turn the hands on the grandfather clock to 9:25. Even her wristwatch was coated with it, her sleeve peeling away from it, sticky. Harry observed as she bowed her svelte frame into the clock’s body, shutting the door behind her with a spectacular _clack._

Snape half-turned toward the fireplace. “Come,” the professor ordered, off-hand.

Harry's exhaustion was bone-deep, but more than that, he just felt… concave. Like it wasn’t just his bone scraped away, but the rest of him with it. The effort to keep his eyes open was tremendous, and the effort to hold up his torso was even worse.

He knew he should just leave with Snape, endure Pomfrey’s scolding without complaint, and get some rest as he’d been instructed.

_But._

“Professor,” he addressed Snape, holding his voice steady as he slid his legs off the sofa. “I can’t go yet. There’s something I need to do.”

The man shot him an impatient look, not pausing for a second in his movement to take hold of the Floo powder. “You are delirious.”

“ _No,_ I’m--” Harry took in a calming breath. “It won’t take long, I swear.”

“Not yet reached your quota for time wasted, Potter?” he questioned, scathing.

His lips twisted as he stood up, his balance shaky but holding. “Just five minutes. That’s all I need, and I’ll come right back.”

The professor fixed him with an unblinking stare. “You have just undergone a crude medical procedure to rectify a potion overdose exacerbated by both time and Apparition. You will return to Hogwarts and _stay put_ in the infirmary, as you should have done to begin with.”

“I _will,_ ” Harry stressed, already putting tentative distance between himself and the professor, “in five minutes.”

“I believe you are laboring under the misapprehension that this is a _negotiation._ ” Snape’s glare was full of warning, hand poised over the powder box on the mantelpiece. “It is _not._ ”

Harry shook his head. “ _Please,_ ” he insisted, his voice and knees wavering as he backed away. His leg felt like a hunk of limestone, heavy but brittle, ready to crumble at the slightest provocation.

However, his determination did not waver. “I need to do something. It's important.”

“What could _possibly_ \--”

When he reached the door frame, Harry stopped listening, Snape's voice becoming a blurry backdrop to the creaking joints of Grimmauld Place; he fancied that he could hear even the minuscule sounds of dust accumulating on windowsills, the steady drip of the faucet in the downstairs bathroom, the shift of stagnant air as it parted to allow him passage.

There was a fuzziness to his processes, a sluggishness to his movements. He knew he was in a bad way, but so long as he was conscious, he'd crawl to his destination if he had to.

Harry had dreaded climbing stairs earlier in the day, but at that moment the task was so inconsequential that he had reached the top step before realizing he’d moved at all. Once he got there, though, it was a different story. There was a hesitancy to his gait as he crept forward, navigating the corridor with care. The dark walls surrounding him were claustrophobic, looming. He wasn’t even technically sure he was going the right way, but, when he reached the end, it was immediately evident that his guess had been correct.

The door to his left was slightly ajar, as if the owner of the room had merely popped out for a midnight snack. Harry knew better, though. The thick silence which permeated the house belied any perceived signs of life, no matter how badly he wished for them.

He pushed open the door.

Coming to this room had previously been unnecessary; its sole inhabitant had only rarely used it to sleep. It was surprisingly sparse, the only furniture a single twin bed, the dark sheets bunched up at the foot as if they'd only just been thrown off. The air smelled a touch sour, like dog's breath, and there were a few random piles of rubbish strewn about. On the walls hung several old posters of a Quidditch team floating majestically over a World Cup pitch, still images of girls posing suggestively on motorbikes, and a large strip of red-and-gold cloth draped unevenly across the wall behind the bed.

It was all so quintessentially _Sirius_ that Harry had to momentarily close his eyes against the wave of longing that surged in his gut. Settling for staring at the floor, he moved to take hold of the end of the bedspread, worrying at the fabric absentmindedly. Harry didn't quite know how to feel, nor did he really understand why he'd been so dead set on coming… Now that he was actually there, he felt a bit queasy. His presence was a disturbance -- he felt as if he were intruding somehow.

Shaking off the thought, Harry’s gaze caught on the wall beside him, where the fabric was hanging. There appeared to be something hidden underneath, the corner sticking out of the edge of the drapery. Without giving it a second thought, he took hold of the fabric, shifting it away to reveal… a huge, messy collage of notes and moving photos. Harry realized, with shock, that the notes were written by various Marauders, the four separate writing styles interspersed with enchanted drawings and paper tricks.

He peeled the fabric back further, cautious, as if a single hasty move might disturb the tableau. One note protruding from the wall nearby was shaped like a pair of bird wings, except one side was fluttering frantically, noiselessly, in the air, and the other was inert, flat against the wood as if it had been glued on. Harry reached out, taking hold of the end of the parchment; every bit of it was covered in writing, the ink a touch faded with age. And there were tons of them littered across the wood surface, all bearing silly catchphrases or bombastic announcements about school, summer vacation, girls, or their “monthly outings”.

Between those mementos were photographs. The first one Harry spotted was a snapshot of his father and Sirius blowing gum bubbles the size of their heads, the fierce competition ending with uproarious laughter and their hair and faces covered with splattered candy. The second was of his mother playing Gobstones with the group, chin in her hand as she considered her next move, and Sirius holding up two fingers behind her head as if they were rabbit ears, offering a playful wink at the camera. Another was of a young Remus sitting on the ground, yawning at the spine of his open book before noticing whoever was taking the photo and offering up a bashful smirk. Then, he turned gingerly away from the camera, a small breeze kicking up his wispy hair and a smattering of dead leaves beside him. Harry’s heart gave an awful lurch at the sight; he missed Remus terribly, but now wasn’t the time, he reminded himself. This day was for Sirius.

His eyes drifted to another and stopped. Everyone was together in that one, his mum and dad, Remus, Sirius… even Peter, Harry realized with a start. They were all smiling, laughing. His father was seated on an unfamiliar sofa, arm laid behind his mother's shoulders, the former saying something excitedly while the latter rolled her eyes at the lot. Remus was doubled over in his seat as he choked on his drink, expression brimming with mirth, Peter patting him lightly on the back and chortling himself.

And Sirius. He was standing on top of a table, swinging a tie around above his head and dressed up nicer than Harry had ever seen him. His motions were expansive and languid, looking absolutely sloshed, regaling his friends with a story that Harry would never get to hear.

The pressure in his chest grew to astronomical proportions, to the point where it actually felt hard to breathe. He let go of the draped fabric, turning away quickly, unable to look at the rest. Five minutes, he'd told Snape; he didn't have time to unravel the mass of feeling that was threatening to crush him.

He took in a shaky breath, the bed springs squealing in protest as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. Harry felt as if he’d swallowed a large, sharp rock, and it had settled painfully behind his sternum. He’d known thinking about Sirius would be hard, but… not this much. He probably shouldn’t have come.

There was dust on the floor, Harry observed inanely. Sirius had likely ordered Kreacher to stay away ages back, and no one had disturbed the place for months. It was odd, though… There were thin scratches in the wood leading toward the closet, weaving together in a well-worn path. Harry drew himself forward, compelled by… Curiosity? Dread? The need for a distraction? He couldn’t be sure. All he knew was, when he cracked open the door to the walk-in closet and lit his wand to see, he regretted it.

The inside was small and devoid of anything one might expect to find in a closet. No clothes hanging, no shoes or scarves, not much of anything closet-like at all. On the floor was a nest of several tattered pillows, covered in short, dark fur and cobwebs. Beside that was a ceramic bowl filled with three candles that had begun to melt together, a few quills, several of which were broken, and what appeared to be the half-chewed leg of one of the dining room chairs.

Had Sirius been… _sleeping_ in there? The resemblance to Harry’s cupboard as a child was uncanny. The space was cramped but, in dog form, perhaps Sirius would have fit. Still, it disturbed him to think of his godfather spending dark, solitary nights shut up in a closet. As the lighted end of his wand passed around the space, he could see deep, jagged scratches on the walls. In the back corner, there was a rumpled leather jacket, one that Harry had seen Sirius wear constantly and, secured to the wall just above it, was a small rectangular mirror.

His throat tightened; it was the same as the one Sirius had given to him last Christmas. The one Harry had shattered beyond repair. The one that might have saved Sirius’ life, had Harry only thought to use it sooner.

The pressure in his head and chest increased tenfold. Harry sank to the floor, arms folded tight over his chest as if to shield it. Knees on the wood, he bent over to lay his forehead on the dirty pillows, willing his lungs to take in air normally. His blood pounded in his ears.

Sirius had kept the mirror by his side the whole time, hadn’t he? Waiting for Harry to call. Waiting for some kind of contact from the outside world. Because that was just it, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he seen how happy Sirius had been to have visitors over Christmas? Hadn’t he noticed his godfather’s awful dejection as their time had drawn to a close? Yet, with all that was going on, he had hardly spared a thought for Sirius, had hardly considered how terrible it must have been to be trapped in that dismal house for months and months. At least when Harry was at the Dursleys, he was able to leave sometimes. See the light of day.

But Sirius? He’d been forced to swap one prison for another, with no end in sight, no possibility of escape. His reasons for never using the mirror, his worry about being the catalyst for Sirius doing something reckless… It all seemed so foolish. The irony was biting; Sirius had done nothing wrong, while Harry’s own recklessness had caused the tragedy.

In the end, wasn’t it his fault that Sirius was dead?

The thought curled his shoulders inward, the pain of it far worse than his leg had been. A gravelly sob tore out of him, harsh as it shredded his defenses, and he struggled to reign in his grief. The pressure was unbearable, splintering his mind. He should never have come. Every memory of his godfather had etched themselves into the furniture, crammed themselves into every nook and cranny, burrowed themselves into the floorboards. His thoughts were too sickening to bear. He was so small and pitiful, so patently useless that Dumbledore had foisted him off on Snape indefinitely. His own weakness was likely to get everyone he cared about killed.

Perhaps it was an appropriate punishment, to be haunted by Sirius.

He was exhausted. He _hated_ himself. Harry drew in a sharp breath, his heartache reaching its apex, and _broke_.

The anguished noise he made sounded inhuman. As hard as he’d tried to contain himself, his despair crashed into him harder; his weeping was utterly uncontrollable, the tears piling up on the dusty floor of the closet. Wretched and alone, Harry could do nothing to stop his suffering; he tried to swallow his cries, but they burst from his throat, warped and jagged.

How long he stayed that way, paralyzed by the strength of his own misery, he couldn’t say. But when he had finally wrestled his breathing into submission, Harry regained command of his muscles. Drained, he slowly sat back on his heels, swiping both hands across his face to dispel his tears, but they still ran freely, relentless.

Instead of continuing that fruitless venture, Harry crossed his arms over his chest, staring dazed at the dog hairs on the pillows. He didn’t feel any better for his outburst. If anything, he just felt… numb. Lately, he’d been _so_ tired, but it was a new kind of tired the likes of which he’d never felt before. The kind which weighed down his limbs, slowed his breathing to a crawl, and filled his mind with wool. The kind that made him want to sink endlessly into nothingness, unmoving. He’d hardly slept for months.

His sigh was more involuntary than revitalizing, but it did rouse his faculties enough for him to remember the reason why he’d come. He couldn’t forget its importance, no matter the circumstances. His arms dropped to his sides and he shifted to one side, taking his weight off his injured leg. Harry’s trousers were covered in dust and grime, but he made no move to clean them off. Instead, he dragged a listless finger across the floorboards, tracing a cylindrical shape in the dust. At the top, he drew several straight lines, all in a row. He didn’t quite know how many to do, so he just filled it in until there was no space left.

That done, he took a moment to wipe away the tears dripping off his chin with his sleeve. Sniffing, he whispered into the heavy air, “Happy Birthday, Sirius.”

The room was cold and silent, raising the hairs on his arms. His voice cracked when he mumbled, “Make a wish.”

His tears renewed their solemn march down his face and he closed his eyes, mouth twisting as he suppressed another sob. As lonely and desolate as the house felt, Sirius still deserved to be remembered. No matter how much it hurt, Harry vowed that he would never forget.

When the door to the room abruptly opened, the doorknob rattling with the force of the entry, Harry flinched, alarmed. “ _Potter_ \--”

Mortified, he turned away quickly, rubbing his face with his hands in a hasty bid to remove any evidence he’d been crying. Harry steeled himself, awaiting whatever malicious words Snape saw fit to spew at him.

However, it was quiet for several seconds. Was he not going to say anything? Did he expect Harry to--?

“Your five minutes have concluded.”

Harry suspected that he’d been gone _far_ longer than five minutes. With that in mind, he finally looked at the man. Snape was stood in the doorway, his height even more imposing than usual due to Harry’s position on the floor. Those black eyes of his were as menacing as they ever were. Everything about him still felt severe, exacting. And, despite being unable to read the man’s expression, it seemed obvious that he understood the situation. Nothing seemed to get past him. _Ever._

So, why had his insults not arrived?

The professor’s hand fell away from the doorknob as he turned back toward the hallway. “It is time to leave,” was all he said.

Harry blinked as Snape fell out of sight, his footsteps echoing as he descended the stairs. No anger, no derision… It was unnerving, that complete lack of reaction. Shocked, Harry stayed in place for a minute more before he felt able to get to his feet and return to the drawing room as he’d been instructed, still braced for some sort of impact.

But it never came. No further words passed between them, and only the green blaze of the Floo marked their departure.


	10. Quality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much too long but! We thank you very much for your patience and we hope you enjoy this chapter. As well, Merry and I have decided to try something new. For those of you who are interested, we've made a tumblr where we will post periodic updates about how the newest chapter is coming along, along with possible previews (if people are interested), fic aesthetics, inspiration, etc.
> 
> If you want to follow, the URL is: https://cricket-and-merry.tumblr.com/
> 
> Coming Soon -- Chapter 11: Reckoning

The evening of the third of November, she’d meant to show her parents her scrubs, but all Cleo saw was her father dressed up in his, hunched over and ragged as if he hadn’t slept for days. He probably hadn’t. He had other things to offer as well. The look in his eyes. The dreary slant to his mouth. The news.

She’d mulled it over a few times in her mind, turning it over, trying to help it settle. It continued to tumble.

“Did you hear me?”

“She’s out,” Cleo repeated, voice wrung out already. “Out, out.” She looked down into her lap. “With Gabriel.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Her arms felt so tightly wound with how deep she buried her hands between her legs. It radiated to her shoulders, dictated the stiffness of her head shake. “You didn’t do it.”

He sounded a breath away from shattering. “He’s still my grandson. He’s still my responsibility.”

“Mine, too,” Cleo objected, glancing up. “And hers. So--”

“Are you okay?”

Such an inane question. She almost wanted to scream. _What do you think?_ She could feel the impulse, writhing in the pit of her stomach, thrumming outward in an ache. He expected an explosion. Anyone who knew her would’ve expected an explosion. But this seething was the result of a long, slow burn. A candle at the end of its wick. She’d spent her tantrums in early adolescence.

“No.”

“I just don’t want you to panic.”

“I’m not.” A harsh breath strangled her mouth into submission. Her voice cracked for the first time, brokering tears. She shook her head. “No point.”

“I wanted--” He cleared his throat when his voice threatened tears as well, staring sternly at the floor for a few seconds more before he continued speaking. “I wanted to know what _you_ wanted to do. Because-- because you know, it’s up to you. Whatever you want done, I’ll make it happen--”

The laugh that oozed from her was bitter as she leaned back in her chair, eyes going to the ceiling. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

“I love your mother very much,” this poured from him, breathless, as he leaned toward the mirror in earnest, “but I love you more, okay? And I will do whatever it takes to protect you and Gabriel.”

Her head swam. She didn’t want to think about this. She didn’t want this to even be a _thing._ But she couldn’t run from it, could she? Not when someone else was depending on her?

It made her sick.

“What even happened?”

“It was stupid--” he broached, teeth gritting. “Just-- my back was acting up. I went to go get a Percocet. I couldn’t find the bottle anywhere and I-- I just went to your mother, didn’t even think about it. She didn’t take it well.”

Cleo slumped as she directed her eyes toward one of Dumbledore’s overflowing bookshelves, looking without seeing. Her lips twisted. “Do you think she’s using again?”

There was silence. A deliberation. The sound of a hand scratching the side of a face. A sigh, all hollowed out. “Yeah, Cleo. I do.”

Cleo swallowed hard. “And I’m supposed to what, ask you to tell the police to throw her in jail? Alienate her more? Make this worse?”

“You’re supposed to do whatever you think is best.”

She looked at him. “What did _you_ think was best?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, strained. Then, after a moment, his mouth tightened and stretched, as if he were steeling himself. “Do you wish I’d done more for you?”

“No,” she murmured. A lie.

“Gabriel is your boy,” he told her. “So whatever you want for him--”

“I _want_ for him to not have to deal with this.”

“I know,” he smoothed over. “But that’s what’s happening right now--”

“I’m not an idiot,” she objected, heated. “I _realize._ ”

Her father frowned. “I know this isn’t easy.”

It took a moment for her to return to herself. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“If getting angry helps, then get angry,” he advised, sincere. “Yell at me, even. It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does,_ ” she insisted. “It won’t help. I just want--”

When she faltered, he was patient. He waited as she breathed, her eyes tracking behind her eyelids as she sought for an answer. _Any_ answer. When enough time had passed, he prompted her with a gentle, “What, honey?”

“I just want her to get help,” she confessed, her breath easing out of her so it wouldn’t choke up into a sob. “For once, I just want her to get help and _stick to it_ and be the mother I _know_ she is.”

He wrung his hands together. “Do you want me to wait, then?”

“I don’t know,” Cleo sighed. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea for Gabriel.”

“She won’t mistreat him,” her father promised. “She never did that to you.”

Another bitter, chagrined laugh rattled out of her like a cough. No, he wouldn’t die, probably, and he wouldn’t get hurt -- maybe. But Gabriel would turn out like his mother, and that was the last thing Cleo ever wanted. That was what a parent was meant to do, wasn’t it? Provide something better than what they'd had?

But maybe that was the pathetic inevitability of a child raising a child. There was never going to be a _good_ or _right_ way about this. Just wasn’t in their cards.

“She was never gone with me more than a week,” Cleo recounted, eyes glued to the ceiling. “So if she doesn’t come home then, we should--”

She let that be; let the implication slump to the floor under the weight of everything it meant.

“Would you want to charge her?”

No. But maybe she should have. Maybe, at this juncture, it was the only way her mother would learn. Sure as hell didn’t feel helpful in any sense, to just drive her to be everything she used to be, force her straight into the grave. But should she have placed the importance of _that_ above her own child?

She could only express the complexity of this feeling with a paltry, half-hearted shrug.

“If I got hold of her, would you want to talk to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cleo--”

“I’m _mad_ at her, Dad,” she protested, her voice cracking again. Her face was flush with a pressure that convulsed against her eyelids. “She did this to my _son_ _._ Okay?”

He capitulated with a soft, “You’re right.”

“If she--” Cleo faltered, digging her nails into the insides of her thighs. “If she comes home-- she has to go get help. Alright? She has to go to rehab, _immediately._ Inpatient. Everything. Just like last time. And-- she has to stick with therapy. I don’t care how much she likes Concordia -- it’s not a replacement for everything else that _she needs._ If she refuses, then I don’t want Gabriel there. I’ll come home--”

“Cleo, no,” he opposed, brow furrowing. “You have to finish school.”

“God-- who _cares?_ ” she exhaled, exasperated. “If Holly is going to be swanning off with my kid every single damn time you two have a fight with one another, then what the hell am I doing here? How am I protecting him from here? I don’t care about being a witch, I don’t care about finishing Hogwarts, I don’t care about my stupid internship--!”

“Internship?”

She leaned back in her chair, pulling on the lime green robe on her body with distaste, wishing she could peel the stupid thing off. “Surprise.”

“Oh, honey--”

Cleo waved a hand. She didn’t want to hear it. It wasn’t the first time her mother had ruined something, it wouldn’t be the last.

“I’m proud of you,” he tried again.

“ _I’m_ coming home, if she refuses to get help.”

“If it comes to that, then we can arrange for something else,” he negotiated, crestfallen. “I’ll take him to my parents--”

“No? _God_ no?”

“Cleo--”

“Like that would be any better? To be with people who wished he wasn’t even here? As if they’d agree to even meet him in the first place? As if _I_ even want him exposed to that?”

“Then I’ll quit my job,” he asserted, firm. “I have enough in savings to last a few years. Could even explain to Dr. Greene that I need a sabbatical to take care of family matters. _I’ll_ watch Gabriel.”

“Dad, no. _No,_ you are _not_ quitting your job--”

She heard the dull, but loud, slap of her father’s hands slamming on the table, the first show of a break in composure. “ _You’re_ not quitting school!” he barked. “I am _not_ letting you quit and throw your bloody life away just because Holly--”

His eyes closed into a full, horrible grimace.

Her father wasn’t one to get angry. Ever. It shook Cleo to her core.

He choked down a gulp of air, as if resurfacing from a stint underwater. “You’d do anything for Gabriel, yeah?”

That went without saying, but she nodded anyway.

“I’d do anything for _you._ Is that understood?”

All Cleo could do was answer with a meek, “Yes.”

He took a moment more to recover, but eased back into the conversation with a deliberately casual, “I’d have to take time off anyway if your mother agreed to go back into treatment.”

She glanced down at her lap, shaking out another nod, this one much more helpless. Nervous.

“So, Gabriel will get taken care of either way. I don’t want you to worry about it.”

“I’m his mother,” Cleo’s voice peeked out, testing itself. She was surprised she could still speak. “I’m always going to worry.”

Her father let out a breath, nowhere near strong enough to be a laugh, like he’d given up halfway through. “There’s that.”

Her voice gave up as well, her response coming out as no more than a hum.

“She’ll come home,” he said, though he sounded more like he was reassuring himself.

“And if she doesn’t?”

His eyes widened, surprised by the bleak turn in the conversation. “Do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I didn’t think she’d do this with my kid, I didn’t think she’d ever relapse, so I can’t really tell you what I expect of her right now.”

The way he spoke to her was urgent, bordering on desperate. “You can’t think like that. Or you _are_ going to stir yourself into a panic--”

“No, wouldn’t want that,” was her caustic rejoinder. “Wouldn’t want _panic_ to get in the way of my Double Double, Toil and Trouble -- wouldn’t want it to keep me from turning needles into matches, or flying on broomsticks, or making sure I add eye of newt to my fucking _cauldron_ \--”

“Cleo, c’mon now, that’s not--”

“Because _that’s_ what matters, right? That my panic doesn’t get in the way of being _witchy_ while my _son_ is stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere in some seedy motel while his grandma is strung out on narcotics for the fifth time that _fucking_ day, doing only God knows what, maybe leaving him unattended with the door open or in the bathtub while the water is--”

Maybe the tantrums weren’t quite done yet.

She forced the heels of her palms hard against her eyes until it hurt more than the churning in her stomach and head. It only took a few moments of deliberation before the floodgates completely opened.

Cleo heard her father let out a breath, as if he’d considered and decided against speaking.

What could he say, anyway? There were no proper answers. He was wise to let her sit in silence. To let her cry without having to speak. It was an ugly, proper cry. One that rattled with screams, one that hurt so badly that she felt close to passing out. It was the sort of sobbing that left her spent, unable to continue, although the misery still languished inside her, tumultuous.

It left her voice completely dead. “S-Sorry, I didn’t think I’d--” She was glad that, for once, Dumbledore had left her with the privacy of her family.

“You needed that, I think.”

Cleo’s hands dived into her lap. Her father was a blur in the midst of artefacts still fluttering across her eyes from the loss of pressure. But she knew by the slump in his posture that he was as worn down as she was.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about it like that, you know.”

Cleo sniffed hard, grimacing as a long line of moisture saturated the back of her hand when she wiped her nose. “What?”

“That side of you.”

“Oh, Dad, _please_ \--”

“You act like it’s a joke,” he averred. “Writin’ it off like that -- eye of newt nonsense. I know for a fact that if it were, you wouldn’t have even considered going.”

She swallowed a bit of syrupy breath back. “It feels like a joke when it comes between me and my kid.”

“And I think you’d fare the same way even if you’d gone to uni here.”

“If I went to uni _there,_ I wouldn’t have had to leave Gabriel behind.”

“And you wouldn’t have left Gabriel behind were it not for something that really mattered to you.”

She felt caught all of a sudden. It made her want to squirm. “But it’s--”

“I remember, Cleo. I remember when that Scottish woman came to our home to give you your Hogwarts letter and explain the situation. I remember that look in your eye. But then--”

She knew where this was going and fast. “It’s not about her.”

“Isn’t it, though?” he questioned. “The switch was so quick after that, Cleo. Just _one_ argument and you were ready to write it all off forever.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I wish you would,” he pressed. “Because I hate the way you talk about yourself. Cuts right to my heart. You act as if all _that_ is not even worth considering. Do you think she won’t love you unless you do that?”

She shifted in her seat, looking away from the glass. “Dad, just-- I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to choose. I wish you knew that.”

“What I want doesn’t matter,” she shoved the change of subject between them, non-negotiable. “It shouldn’t even be a consideration when it comes to Gabriel.”

“How do you figure that?” her father questioned, incredulous.

“If I were any real mother--”

“Oh, you’re a mother all right. Nothing hypothetical about it.”

She leveled him with a look. _You know what I meant._

“Just useless is all,” he continued. “Comparing yourself to this idea of a ‘real mother.’ There’s no such thing. There are just parents who make their own decisions, good or bad. And yeah, Cleo. You’ve made some bad decisions. But you’ve made a lot of good ones, too.”

“ _Sure_ thing--”

“Do you think resenting him would be any better?” he proposed, catching the sarcasm in her voice. “If you gave up on something that really mattered to you?”

“I wouldn’t _resent_ him!” she balked, disgusted. “I would _never_ feel that way about Gabriel--”

“But you wouldn’t be happy. And children have a way of knowing when their parents aren’t happy. And it makes _them_ miserable, too.”

She felt like arguing, _I could find other ways to be happy,_ but there was no use in it. She was used to this, her father insisting that he understood what made her happy. Running on this idea that she would constantly _repress_ or _settle_ instead of doing what mattered to her.

If only he really understood that Gabriel was the only thing that could ever possibly matter and she would orient herself in a way that suited him best. _That_ brought her joy.

“Parenthood isn’t all sacrifice,” he divulged, linking his hands together. “Sometimes we make decisions that hurt now and help later. It’s just how things go.”

She couldn’t help the thought that floated, unbidden, to the surface of her thoughts. _Do you think that because it helps you feel better about the decisions you made?_

There was no point in saying that either. Useless hostility. Not what either of them needed.

Her face was sore. She glanced over her shoulder before announcing, “I have to go to work.” Not that she even wanted to go now. But what other choice did she have?

“Work?” He inquired, before his eyes widened with recognition. “Oh-- Oh, the, uh--”

“Yeah.”

“Night shift, huh?” He exhaled, forcing a smile. “I remember that. You, uh--”

“It’s not getting in the way of school, no.”

“Good. Okay, well--” His breath hitched in his throat. “I’ll just hold the fort, I suppose. And I’ll contact you the second I hear word about Gabriel.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” he assured her. And himself, probably. “Have a good evening. I love you.”

By then, she’d risen and pulled her bag over her shoulder, her returning “I love you, too” quiet and feeble as the image of her father faded from sight.

She'd nearly decided not to show up to the club meeting on Tuesday. The exhaustion was a convincing deterrent, though it was a spectre she was growing accustomed to shadowing her. It lived in the pervasive anxiety that seemed fit to linger as a backdrop to everything she did. Hovering, but not quite enough to debilitate and excuse her from the promises she kept, the responsibilities required of her, the deadlines that she had to meet.

So with troublesome intrusive thoughts strolling beside her, she went to make good on the promise she’d made to Hermione.

On arrival, she was greeted with… _quite_ a lot more people than expected. A patchwork collection of roughly thirty students, all hailing from different Houses, were in attendance, some faces familiar but most not. Surprisingly, she was not the only Slytherin representation, though that wasn't saying much… Ann Rochford stood tall amidst her gaggle of followers, imperious.

A polite tap on her shoulder prompted her to clear out from the doorway. As she was moving away, a familiar voice stopped her.

"Oh! Cleo!"

It was Jodie, standing at an angle to offset the weight of several large textbooks in her bag and wearing a large pink barrette to hold her bangs out of her eyes. "It's been a while!" she greeted, beaming.

“Jodie,” Cleo quietly replied, forcing a smile of her own. Though, matching her energy seemed rather impossible. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

"Oh, _yeah,_ " the third year lilted, lips tightening as her eyes drifted about the room. "Lance invited me."

She’d never heard that name before. “Lance?”

"He's my…" Her eyelashes fluttered momentarily, a nervous tick. "Friend. Haven't I told you about him?"

“Afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” Cleo admitted. “It’s not your fault. I’ve been pretty swamped. Has Potions gotten any better for you?”

The girl pulled a face momentarily before schooling her features. "Well, you know, I've still got a lot to learn."

“What section are you at?”

"Sensitive ingredients," she mentioned, depositing her bag on the ground with a relieved sigh. "We're handling fire seeds tomorrow."

“Oh, fun. Lessons that make Snape extra cantankerous. You must be excited,” Cleo teased.

Jodie expelled a mirthless laugh. "I'm just glad Snape isn't teaching any Remedial Potions this year, or I'd be the crowned fool of Slytherin."

Cleo’s head shook. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

The girl’s gaze swept across the room, as if she were searching for someone. Or, perhaps, verifying that nobody important was around. Her hands went to her hair, smoothing it down absentmindedly. “Do you think Rhys is going to be here?”

“I don't know,” Cleo replied. “But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

"His girlfriend is here," she commented, going for a neutral tone and failing.

“Who?”

"Ann Rochford," Jodie supplied. "She's only a fifth year, but she's friends with loads of older students."

Cleo squinted. “Rhys is going out with _her?_ ”

The girl canted her head. " _Yeah--_ didn't you see her wailing over him in the Entrance Hall at the demonstration?"

“I did, but...” Cleo twisted her lips. “Didn’t really think a guy like Rhys would, y’know--”

Distracted, Jodie sighed, “Yeah… it’s--” Her eyes fixed on a point across the room. “Oh! There’s Lance and Erica!” She scooped up her bag again in a rush, her hastened departure completed with a well meaning but clumsy, “Nice talking to you, Cleo!”

Her voice petered out into a soft, “You too,” underpinned by a small smile. It was nice, in an odd way, seeing that. Nostalgic. She could remember being that carefree. Vivacious. _Unburdened._

Her eyes fell into a heavy squint at the floor, insides clenching with guilt. Unburdened? Where had _that_ come from…?

She watched the number of occupants in the room grow to forty as a group of Ravenclaws shuffled in but, inexplicably, the noise level increased tenfold. Everyone about her was talking loudly, laughing, practicing spells, enjoying their company… even if the groups themselves seemed to be carefully sectioned off.

And Cleo couldn’t help but feel the most sectioned off of all.

By the time Hermione arrived in the room, only a few minutes before seven, the sound levels had grown to full cacophony; the girl nearly dropped her mountain of papers, started as she was. Behind her trailed Harry, hands shoved in his pockets, and a few other Gryffindors Cleo had class with, but she couldn't remember their names.

Hermione tried to approach the podium directly, but was frequently hindered by misplaced students obstructing the way. When she finally arrived at her destination, she already looked tired but, after checking a quick _Tempus,_ she tried to address the gathered students: “All right, I think it’s time to…”

No response. Cleo seemed to be the only one paying enough attention to notice her.

“Um, it’s-- it’s seven o’clock--”

Hermione seemed to be having a hard time wrangling the crowd. The echoing room shifted her voice about, diluting it midair; no one paid her any mind.

Suddenly, Ann’s high-pitched voice lifted above the other students, “Settle down, everyone! We’re starting!” A hush radiated out from her circle of friends and spread to the group at large as they all took their seats.

"Right, ehm, thanks," Hermione murmured, clutching a book to her chest for security. "So, um. _Welcome_. This is the first meeting. For-- for the Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group--"

Just as she'd managed to rattle that off, a Gryffindor from the crowd shouted, "Hear hear!" A low rumble of laughter rippled through the gathered students.

Hermione took in an unsteady breath; the interruption could either bolster her resolve, or further derail her momentum. Judging by her next words, it had been the latter.

"Okay." Awkward, she shifted under the weight of their gazes. "The ehm… the… Well, see, the ah, _reason_ I've brought you here--"

"I think we all know the purpose of the club," Ann cut in, amused. "It's in the title, isn't it?"

"Well-- _yes_ , but--"

"Then let's talk action, right?" the girl continued, talking over Hermione as her protest fizzled out. Several other students were nodding, eager.

Hermione collected herself minutely, replying, "Yes, I-- yes of course. I was just getting to that--"

"Oh! I know!" Ann exclaimed, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. "Let's hear some ideas from everyone, and we can all decide together what our first plan of action will be!"

Harry spoke, then, from his place in the front row. “Why don’t you let her speak instead of taking over, then?”

The girl tossed her brunette ponytail over her shoulder, leveling Harry an offended look. "What are you talking about? I'm only _trying_ to help out." At that, she pinned her gaze on Hermione. "I mean, you _were_ going to ask for ideas from everyone, weren't you?"

The Gryffindor shifted her weight, face as red as her house crest. "That um, I mean yes, of course I'd like to hear input, but I also--"

"Well that's _settled,_ then," Ann concluded with a note of finality. "It’s not ‘taking over’ if I’m simply carrying out the original plan. Now, let's hear some ideas, hm? I have a few myself, but I think everyone should be able to share."

As if he'd been awaiting just such an opening, a Hufflepuff boy stepped forward out of the circle of students. "Hello all," he greeted the gathering, his posh accent only semi-familiar to Cleo. "My name is Justin Finch-Fletchley, for those of you with whom I've yet to make acquaintance."

A rumble of half-hearted acknowledgements and cleared throats passed through the audience. Cleo saw one of the other Hufflepuffs roll their eyes at the boy. He continued: “I am glad to see such a range of Houses represented in this gathering, and I for one think it's high time we all worked together in harmony to make Hogwarts a better place."

There was no response from the group, but Ann filled in the silence. "Very good, yes! That's what we like to hear, though of course that wasn't really an _idea_ , but-- admirable enthusiasm!" Justin gingerly returned to his place as the girl ushered him away with a small, dismissive motion.

"Anyone else?" the girl asked, hands clasped behind her back.

A hand waved frantically in the air and Cleo quickly discerned that it belonged to the ever-bubbly Megan. "I just want to say that I am so excited to be here! This group is amazing!" she enthused. "I have so many fun ideas for activities!"

Ann's gaze had been expectant throughout, but she then prompted, "And those would be…?"

"Oh! Well, I think everyone else can probably think of something better," Megan qualified, playing with the ends of a tassel hanging from her school bag. "But it would be lovely if we could do really fun things together! Like painting a club banner, or making sweets, or-- or _snowball fights--!_ "

A Ravenclaw boy picked up her enthusiasm. "What if instead of a banner, it was graffiti? We're making demands of this school, aren't we? We should use art as a form of protest."

Several students began talking at once in response.

"Is that really going to--?"

"-- not everyone is _good_ at--"

"-- don't think there's enough--"

"Vandalising the school isn't going to help anyone," Hermione found her voice to cut in, expression incredulous.

"It's not _vandalism,_ " Ann defended the boy. "It's sending a message. 'Proving we won't be ignored', as Rhys would say."

A Gryffindor girl with red hair spoke up. "Yeah, we 'won't be ignored', all right. We'll be in detention the rest of our lives!"

"Ginny is right," Hermione agreed. "It's important that we stay above-board--"

"When has 'above-board' ever gotten anyone anywhere?" Ann dismissed, waving a hand for good measure. "We'll take it into advisement, um…"

"Eddie Carmichael," the boy supplied, a prideful tilt to his chin.

"A pleasure," Ann intoned alongside a slow blink. Cleo's swift glance at Hermione showed that her eyes were directed at the ground, mouth closed in a thin line.

“We could have a dance,” one of the younger Gryffindor girls said, blushing. “You know, like the Yule Ball. Some of us were too young to go before…”

Another girl, Hufflepuff that time, said, “I was thinking it might be nice to have an all-girls Quidditch match. The sport is so dominated by men--”

“-- a culture festival, maybe? My dad is from Belgium and--”

“-- should take out an ad in the Daily Prophet! It will look really favorable on--”

“-- selling sweets, we did that once to raise money to fix up my uncle’s shop--”

“-- House-themed ice sculptures would look lovely out on the grounds--”

A parade of ideas streamed from the gathered assembly at a pace nearly impossible for Cleo to keep up with. One after the other, students of all ages raised their voices to contribute. It might have been hopeful and inspiring, if the mood were not so peculiar; despite all the enthusiasm of the group, Cleo felt the distinct sting of imbalanced power. Hermione was the one who, by rights, should have been in charge, but she remained at the podium, saying very little. Standing tall and poised at the front, commanding the spotlight, was Ann, who took each comment with a slight smile and a cue for the next.

After most of the students had had their say, one voice rose up from the center of the crowd following a short delay. "Hi, um, I had a thought," a Ravenclaw boy mentioned. "Since we've got quite a fair bit of people gathered, we could put on a play. To, you know, raise awareness."

Ann did her due diligence and expressed the same amount of support for this as she had all the ideas previous. Clasping her hands together in front of her, she replied, "That's a _marvelous_ idea--"

"Raise awareness for what?" This challenge was issued by an olive-skinned girl from the same House, her tone plainly irritated, but even keeled. "What has absolutely _any_ of this got to do with equality?"

The influence this had on the room was palpable; several people nodded along in agreement, while others looked worried, abashed, or disgruntled. The boy who had spoken before looked surprised. "Padma-- I didn’t mean-- Well, there's all _sorts_ of plays about underdogs rising above their--"

"I'm not an _underdog,_ " the girl shot back. "I'm just tired of bigoted Slytherins calling me a _Paki_ under their breath!"

"Now, now," Ann's voice wedged itself into their argument. "Let's not resort to pointing fingers, hm? We don't all associate with _degenerates,_ you understand--"

“Hold on, Ann,” Cleo stepped in, finally. “Let her talk. This sounds like a serious problem.”

Padma glared at them both. "My sister and I have _Indian_ heritage, but we are _British;_ we've lived here the whole of our lives! And _some people--_ " Her narrowed gaze lingered on the Slytherins in the room. "-- have really _disgusting_ attitudes that a handful of detentions aren't going to fix."

"There's always going to be some left-wrist wizards in _any_ House," Ann was quick to stress, her voice smooth, if a little frosty. "But, of course, this club is all about--”

“-- not downplaying the concerns of others,” Cleo finished for her, feeling her hackles rise for the first time. “So maybe you shouldn’t monopolize the conversation when another student is raising very real concerns about racism shown toward her by her peers.”

“And you shouldn't use wizardisms when you're addressing the room,” Hermione put in, seeming to find some confidence in Ann’s brief silence. “It’s inaccessible to Muggleborns.”

Ann's expression was a touch sour, but a Slytherin girl who looked close to Jodie's age spoke up. "This is a _club_. We're here to think of ideas, not listen to everyone's problems."

Cleo’s eyes widened a tad. It struck her that the girl was much too young to be saying something like that. But, then again, such an immature outlook could only have come from someone so young. Maybe it was the tone of it--

“You think I’m some kind of _nag?_ ” Padma objected, heated. “There’s a huge problem with racism in this school, and how else will it change unless I say something? What else am I supposed to do? Stay silent?” Her voice brokered an accusation: _I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?_

And considering the current make-up of the room, she could hardly be blamed for thinking so.

"No one is saying that," Ann relented, hands raised primly at her elbows in surrender. "Mafalda, we need to be more _considerate_. Everyone here is welcome to share their thoughts."

Megan, who up until then had been looking quite troubled, remarked, "That is so sad, Padma! I never knew something really bad like that was happening! We should _do_ something!"

A sixth year Gryffindor girl with dark hair added her voice, "We should. It's more than race or blood, though. The bullying has really gotten out of control, and my girlfriend, Fay--"

" _Excuse_ me?" Padma interrupted at once, glaring at the pair of them. "How can you _say_ that?"

The girl looked genuinely perplexed. "What?"

" _Blatant racism_ is not the same as regular bullying!"

"No, I… It's not--"

Her girlfriend, presumably Fay, cut in, tone immediately aggressive. "Lay off! Scarlett _obviously_ wasn't saying that--!"

Justin interjected, "Let us remain civilized with each other--"

Padma let out a disdainful chuckle. "Civilized?! _You_ lot are the ones not taking me seriously--!"

Fay's answering gesture was full of frustrated energy. "Bit hard to when you won't even let her talk--!"

"Fay, stop!"

"-- when she was just _agreeing_ with you!"

This was really starting to get out of hand. Many of the surrounding students looked deeply uncomfortable, but others were reacting more strongly to the tense atmosphere.

Another Ravenclaw boy tried to act as an intermediary. "Let's not fight; we should be working together--"

"Yes, definitely, Terry!" Megan agreed, now wringing her hands. "We're all here to help each other, right?"

Padma talked right over top of them both. “She didn’t _agree_ with me _._ She immediately tried to clump the entire ordeal together as if it’s all the same thing. It’s _not._ When someone calls me a racial slur, that’s _targeted._ It’s not just a general bullying problem! How would you feel if I tried to dismiss homophobia directed at you and your girlfriend?”

Fay balked. “That’s _different_ \--!”

“No it isn’t!” Padma yelled.

Ginny barged in, arms crossed. “Doesn’t exactly help that some people in here are the exact same people _causing_ these problems.” Her gaze was pointed toward Ann and her group, who could only manage to look scandalized at being singled out.

“It was only a joke…” Jane Atwater feebly excused, shuffling in place in the midst of Ann's circle of friends.

“Oh, some bloody joke!” Padma scoffed.

Another young Slytherin piped up again with a haughty, “No one can help that you’re way too sensitive.”

Padma’s eyes widened, furious. “Come again?”

“Lance--! Don't _talk_ like that,” That was Jodie, rising from her seat. “Words can be hurtful! That doesn’t mean she’s sensitive!”

Ginny’s voice was accusatory as she glared at Hermione. “Why are these people even allowed to be here?”

“Maybe if your friend _calmed down,_ ” Fay cut in, “and explained the situation like a _normal human being--_ ”

Padma’s breath hitched before she clenched her fists. “Oh you'd _best_ not be implying what I think you are--!”

“Merlin, do you just see enemies everywhere?” Fay argued, before Scarlett put a hand on her arm, staying her.

“Fay-- _Please._ _You_ need to calm down. You’re not helping--”

Jodie was growing angry as well. “How else is she meant to react? I’d be really upset too if I saw my bullies show up at a club that's _supposed_ to be against inequality!”

Both Ginny and Padma made a noise that expressed both their frustration and relief. “ _Thank_ you!” Padma belted. “At least _someone_ gets it!”

Terry looked exhausted as he crossed his arms. “Well, what do you want us to do? Kick them out?”

“Yes!” Ginny and Padma exclaimed, simultaneous.

“Hold on!” Ann whined. “That’s not fair. You can’t just kick us out over a _joke._ One random girl throws a fit and suddenly me and my friends are no longer welcome?”

“Why should you be?” Ginny questioned, red in the face. “Especially when you make the entire school inhospitable for everyone? Why are you even _here?_ ”

“I haven’t done anything! Now you’re just hurling baseless accusations at me!” Ann complained. Her eyes, widened and exaggeratedly morose, besought the help of the others. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” Lance grumbled, scowling.

“Do any of you know who my boyfriend is?” Ann continued. “I’ve been with him! On the picket line! That should prove, above all, that I’m here in solidarity!”

“Oh so just because your precious boyfriend is an activist, you’re suddenly not a bully?” Padma accused.

Ginny looked toward Hermione again. “Hermione, I thought you were our friend. You can’t seriously let these _Slytherins--_ ”

“Oh we’re just _Slytherins_ now, are we?” Lance was up in arms, practically barreling toward Padma with a raised finger in accusation. “So you whine because someone called you a _Paki_ but then turn around and discriminate against _us_ based on House--”

“Will you stop?!” Jodie shouted to her housemate. “There’s a difference between a slur and _that!_ ”

“You see that?” Padma looked at everyone around her in turn, livid. “You see what he just called me?”

“I didn’t call you _anything,_ you moron!”

Ginny swooped in, aggressively shoving herself in the boy’s face. “Call her that again. I dare you.”

“Oh what’s _that?_ ” he balked with disgust, gesturing toward Ginny attempt at intimidation. “Just because I’m Slytherin, you think I’m going to attack your stupid friend?”

“ _This_ is why people hate us!” Jodie shouted. “Because you act like this! Because you treat people like this!”

“ _I_ haven’t done anything!” the boy objected. “I haven’t treated her like anything! But she’s swanning around, saying there has to be a full ban on this club for Slytherins! I bet if we said, none of _her_ type allowed, everyone would be in uproar--”

“ _My_ type?” Padma growled.

“ _This_ is exactly why Slytherins shouldn’t be allowed,” Ginny seethed.

Fay popped up again, “There’s a Slytherin _defending_ you, genius.”

Ginny practically rounded on her. “You _know_ what I mean! _Obviously_ if they’re not complete arseholes like this lot here, then they can stay!”

“I’m an _arsehole,_ am I?” Lance bristled. “ _You’re_ the one who started this whole mess! _You’re_ the one with a problem! Why don’t _you_ leave?”

“Because this club is meant for people like me!” Padma argued. “For people like Hermione! Why the hell should we be kicked out just because _you’re_ uncomfortable being called out for your horrible behavior?”

He stepped up to Padma again, chest out. “ _My_ horrible behavior, huh?”

All of a sudden, Harry burst out of his seat, placing himself in between Lance and the girl. “Back off.”

“If you can’t debate without hostility, then maybe you shouldn’t involve yourself in matters like these,” Ann suggested. “This is no way to achieve House unity.”

“I don’t want to be unified with you if it means excusing how you treat people,” Ginny averred in a tone so cold Cleo felt the room chill.

Padma’s tone grew urgent, her plea directed squarely at Hermione.. “Are you planning to do _anything_ about this?”

A quick glance at the girl revealed a picture of helplessness: her wide eyes, her face drained entirely of color, and her knuckles white as she gripped the scroll in her hands hard enough to strangle it. Hardly allowing her room to breathe, Padma shouted, "You going to say anything at all?!"

She was met with silence as Hermione stood frozen in place.

Padma scoffed. "Of course not." She pushed past her housemates, shoving Harry out of her way with enough force to destabilize him momentarily. Then, she leveled her gaze at Hermione's withered form. "Thanks for the support, _Granger._ ”

Her angry gaze encompassed the entire room before she barged out, the sound of her stomping clamoring hurriedly down the hall.

There was a heavy pause following her departure. Nobody dared to move or make a sound, as if the slightest disturbance might nullify the fragile peace brokered in the silence.

A small boy closer in age to Thea raised a shaky hand. Ann was the one to prompt him. "Yes?"

"Um." He swallowed, nervous. "May I please go to the bathroom?"

The girl folded her arms, sighing in exasperation. " _Yes._ "

The child scuttled away, disappearing with the muted haste of a mouse. The atmosphere was only slightly less unbearable for the interruption. In the midst of it, Ann's voice arose once more. "Everyone… now that the disruption is over--"

"Disruption?! _Seriously?_ " Ginny erupted. " _Piss off,_ Rochford!"

She, similarly, stormed out the door. Ann, on the other hand, was quite composed, taking in a steadying breath before commenting, "What I was _going_ to say was-- I asked for ideas from everyone because _my_ idea was to combine a bunch of them together into one big event for the whole school."

The group remained quiet, still recovering from the horrible awkwardness that still lingered about the space. Ann sighed, frowning as she admitted in a pitiable tone, "I just… thought it would be fun.”

Megan, evidently, took this bait. “I think that’s a _really_ fun idea. Right, everyone?”

The reaction from the room was lukewarm, with no one showing much support one way or the other. Somehow, Ann took this in stride.

“And if that girl had _let_ me speak, I would gladly have given her the opportunity to be a part of the event, leading the effort to teach everyone more about cultural sensitivity…”

With the din gone, Cleo felt more inclined to speak. Sitting up in her chair, she leveled Ann with a scowl. “Stop.”

Her answering tone was sharp. “ _What?_ ”

With Ann staring back, the idea of getting into it with her seemed… pointless. Arguing the fact she’d _antagonized_ the girl into leaving was going to get her, and the meeting itself, nowhere. Nevermind the fact that picking a fight with a fifteen year old felt so…

Pursing her lips, Cleo pointedly turned her attention to Hermione, who hadn’t budged one inch from where she stood, glum eyes trained to the ground. “What do you think, Hermione?”

As all eyes turned to the girl, Cleo nearly regretted drawing their attention. Hermione looked about ready to sick up; she was clinging to the podium as if it would keep her afloat. “Um…” she breathed, the sound shallow, as if the air was too thin. “I’m… We--” She filled her lungs, holding it before letting out in a whoosh: “We’ll meet at the same time next week.”

Releasing her stance, she turned quickly away, fumbling with her stack of papers as the room filled with murmurs and disgruntled chatter. As the students around her prepared to leave, Cleo looked at them in bewilderment; were they honestly ready to just leave it at _that?_

Well, maybe they were. The migrating crowd appeared to want nothing more than to scatter and leave behind what had been an awkward, unexpected experience. Perhaps wondering if something like _this_ was even worth the bother.

And Cleo hadn’t exactly made that better, had she? Especially not to Hermione, bamboozled like that. What else was she meant to say, other than what would give her the quickest means of escape?

Shit.

The girl was still attempting to gather her things when Cleo spotted her. She needed to apologize.

She tried to make her way there immediately, but she was stopped by Ann and her entourage, who paused to deliver a sarcastic greeting. "Hey _Cleo,_ it's so nice to see you contributing to the _community_ for once!" This was uttered along with the prettiest and deadliest of smiles, but she quickly dropped the pretense, her nose wrinkling. "I just want you to know, this was _your_ fault. There never would have been a fight if you'd kept that giant mouth of yours shut.

"So, congratulations on ruining everything you touch," Ann remarked, saccharine, "and have a _lovely_ day."

The sudden onset of hostility took her aback, and the girl allowed her no room to react, receding back to her friend group with an adolescent swagger that spoke volumes of what Ann thought she’d just accomplished.

A zinger she would, no doubt, recount to her friends with all the confidence that could only live inside of a teenager.

Cleo supposed if she were sixteen still herself, she would’ve been intimidated. Instead, being on the other end of the melodramatics made her realize how vast the gap was between her and her current “peer group.”

She didn’t know what to make of it, other than to wipe the second-hand embarrassment off her face as she continued her way to Hermione. The delay had given her enough time to pack up her things. Cleo hurried to approach her, but before she could get close enough, Harry beat her to it.

"Hey, you alright?" he broached, his voice so careful it almost sounded patronizing.

Even from a distance, Cleo could hear how strained the girl's voice was. "Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Harry's brow was furrowed with concern. He lowered his voice to say something, and it prompted an immediate, caustic reaction from Hermione.

"It certainly wouldn't be the _first_ time. Not that _you_ care!" she accused him, her arms jerkily scooping up her bag.

" _Hermione,_ please…"

"Leave me alone," was her strict demand, and she walked straight out the door a moment later.

Cleo’s arrival felt rather untimely in that moment. She considered walking away altogether, until she noticed Harry’s eyes catch hers. No escaping it after that, she supposed. Though she couldn’t shake the feeling of being caught in a place she shouldn’t have been.

“Happy to see you out of the infirmary,” she addressed him once she was close enough, trying for a neutral, safe ground.

There was an unsettled edge to his acknowledgement, a stiffness to his neck as he nodded. “Yeah, I uh… heal up quick.”

“Guess the rest was just what you needed, then?”

Harry pressed his lips together; she felt certain he’d meant to smile, but it seemed to have arrived half-baked on his face. “I don’t think any amount of rest could have prepared me for…” He gestured vaguely toward the center of the room.

“Oh.” Cleo blew out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Yeah. This could have gone better.”

The boy folded his arms, frowning. “Understatement of the century.”

She smiled at him, albeit quite sadly. “I wanted to apologize to her, actually.”

“What for?”

“I only wanted Ann to stop bulldozing her,” she admitted. “But I didn’t realize putting the attention on Hermione would make her feel pressured.”

Harry’s gaze traveled to the door. “Padma was right. Don’t think anything is going to get done until the Slytherins are gone.”

Her answering sigh was exhausted; she wasn’t going to quibble with him about nuance. “Maybe so.”

At that, he seemed to remember who he was talking to. “I, ehm… I didn’t mean _you_.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she tried to smooth over, diplomatic. “I’m not going to fight you on it.”

However, this put Harry even further ill-at-ease; he cleared his throat, not looking at her directly. “Anyway-- I just wish there was something I could do... not that Hermione really wants my help right now.”

“She does,” she softly disagreed. “I think she’s just incredibly overwhelmed. This meeting meant a lot to her and considering how it just went--”

“Yeah, I know,” he commented, a weariness suffusing his tone. “It’s just-- The three of us had a row, and now she’s hardly talking to me or Ron.”

“Can I ask what you fought about?” Cleo attempted, wary. After a moment, however, she nervously tacked on: “It’s alright if not.”

His deliberation lasted only a few seconds before he said, "I don't really want to talk about it. It's just… It's all a bit of a mess, is what I mean."

“I see.”

If he picked up on her careful tone, he didn't let on. "Anyway, er… We still meeting up on Thursday? I'll have the Blood Replenishing Potion memorized by then."

“Ah… yeah. I might be a little late because I have a thing in the morning with Snape but… I’ll be there.”

His lips were closed tight when he smiled. “Well. Sorry, er, I’ve got Quidditch -- I’m late already, but I wanted to be here for… you know.”

The abrupt way he’d mentioned that left her stomach feeling tied up in knots. “No, don’t want to keep you. Sorry. Have fun.”

With a brief wave, he murmured, "See you later."

And when Harry turned his back, she felt a rush of heat blister against her eyelids, so sudden and unexpected that she ducked her head away to hide them.

She was delivering her sixth round of potions to the fourth floor Wednesday evening when a voice by her side startled her.

“Hey.”

A man emerged from the other side of a nearby curtain. Attired in green, he had the look of any typical hospital employee, but there was one key difference: Instead of the sashes given to healers, the man was wearing a floor-length white tunic over top his robes. Rather than the unicorn brooches Cleo was used to seeing in the Potion wards, his department pin was shaped like a three-headed snake. The man's teeth glinted as he flashed her a smile, tucking his wand away as he approached her. “New blood from The Pit, I take it?”

Cleo’s head dipped into a terse nod. “Yeah.”

He offered his hand. “Richard Moore, Minder-In-Charge.”

She had to shift her small container of vials into one arm as she caught his hand in hers for a light shake. “Cleo Croft.”

“Nice to meet you.” His head inclined toward the collection of vials. “Got a delivery for me?”

“Yes.” Her reply was measured, nowhere close to how chipper his was. “You want them anywhere in particular or--”

“Ah, well--” His forehead crinkled as he glanced around. “Suppose beside the girl is all right. We were about to administer anyway. Has Pye gone over the procedure with you?”

“No. He’s been keeping me oriented toward the lab work.”

Richard shifted as he placed his hands into the pockets of his robes, the movement entirely casual. “Well, I’m happy to let you observe if you aren’t expected back immediately.”

Cleo glanced over her shoulder, uncertain. “Do you think that would be alright?”

“Like I said, if you aren’t expected back immediately, it’s above board. Pye might be your mentor, but we all like to educate the apprentices when we can. I imagine with being stuck in the lab, you’re not getting much face time with the patients?”

A sheepish smile swept over her features. “Not really.”

He flashed another smile of his own to match hers. “Spelling potions to the stomach is rather rudimentary. I’d be happy to teach you.”

“I’d really like that, actually,” she admitted, the enthusiasm that was meant to be there failing to reach her voice. Her eyes locked to the courtesy curtain beside them. “You said it’s for the Jane Doe?”

His eyebrow raised. “Hm?”

“Oh, uhm-- I guess I’ve gotten used to saying --” Cleo paused, her expression twisting up before she explained, “Jane Doe -- it’s sort of a stand in name used as a placeholder for people who haven’t yet been identified where I come from.”

His lips pursed before they ticked up, amused. “Interesting.”

Her brows drew together and she shook her head, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I think I’m getting kind of used to being open with Pye and--”

“No, honestly, it’s interesting. He’s known for that around here, you know. Medical integration.” Richard’s voice lowered as he leaned in toward her. “It actually got him kicked out of the last ward he was assigned to. Pretty awful shame, if I’m honest.”

“Oh.”

Richard suddenly shook his head, frowning. “Oh, it’s nothing like ah-- him getting in trouble for _talking_ about it, or what have you. More like, he tried a Muggle medical procedure on a patient. Rather harmless. But it didn’t take well.”

Cleo let out a breath. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Thankfully, it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed,” Richard clarified. “But, Smethwyck tried to get him fired. Probably would’ve succeeded had the family not been as compassionate as they were, and if the bloke hadn’t willingly agreed to the procedure in the first place.”

“What was it, if I can ask?”

At this, a short laugh escaped from the man’s mouth. “Stitches.”

Instinctively, Cleo’s eyes plummeted down to the front of her stomach, her insides feeling lead-heavy. “Oh. Actually, I have experience with that. Didn’t go well for me either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine now, really.”

With a jovial hum, Richard nodded once before pulling a hand out of his pocket to gesture toward the curtain. “Well, I would be very delighted if you would assist me in attending to our 'Jane Doe'.”

His levity was likely intended to settle on her, warm and sincere, but all she could manage was an awkward grin to meet it as he pulled the curtain apart to allow her through first.

The girl’s recovery was coming along well enough. Despite her coma still persisting, her Splinch wound had healed over, for the most part. Her sinew and flesh were still in the process of repairing themselves, but in a few days the area would fill out and scar over. Her bruises had yellowed and were fading. Thankfully, she had begun gaining weight. Not near enough to be considered healthy, but in the very least she didn’t appear to be wasting away anymore.

“You have her full round of doses?” Richard prompted.

“Yes,” Cleo supplied, placing the small crate on her bed side table. Her finger pointed to each vial in turn as she listed them off, “Blood Replenishing, Tissue Regenerative, Nutritional Elixir, Splinch Salve, Bruise Balm, and Pain Relief.”

“I thought Healer Lindt put in an order for Bone Restorative this morning,” Richard mused, lips twisting.

“Oh, well-- I’m sorry, this is all Pye told me to brew.”

He waved a hand. “Not your fault. Probably a mix up. Would you mind telling Pye about it, though? We were finally able to do a more thorough examination since her condition stabilized and we ended up discovering multiple fractures.”

God, how horrible.

“I know we have some in stock,” Cleo told him, stepping back. “I could run down to the department real quick and fetch one for you?”

Richard shook his head. “No need. I’ll have Minder Tenenbaum handle it when we administer her Nutritional in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Richard replied with a grin. “I appreciate the go-get-’em attitude, though.”

She flushed, though more so because she was ashamed that part of her was relieved he wouldn’t take her up on her offer. “Thank you.”

“Now,” he remarked, his voice taking on a tone of instruction, “when we administer potion directly into the organs, it’s better to start with a Nutritional. Some of these potions can cause nausea if not taken with food.”

Cleo’s head dipped into a nod. It was good to know that, in some areas, Muggle and Magical medicine weren’t all that different.

“The incantation starts with _Iaculis,_ ” he informed her as he unstoppered the Nutritional Elixir. “You direct the wand from the bottle opening to the patient’s form. Then you indicate the area in the incantation itself. For this purpose, it’s _Ventri._ ”

Cleo’s brow furrowed. “Ventri?”

“Latin for stomach,” the man told her. “Inexact, I know. It also has the unfortunate side effect of forcing us to memorize human anatomy in Latin as well.”

“English doesn’t work?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Richard mused. “Perhaps even if that were possible, it’s not something I, personally, would like to test on one of my patients, considering the amount of things that could go wrong. If I were you, I’d invest in learning some rudimentary Latin.”

Great. Just what she needed. Cleo forced herself to nod.

“I’ll show the first round,” he announced, directing his attention to the girl. With his wand at the ready, he spoke as he moved, the wand work fluid and practiced, “ _Iaculis Ventri._ ”

The vial’s contents tapered away until disappearing completely, and Cleo glanced from it to Richard’s wand tip, head tilting.

“Simple as that,” the man concluded, slipping his wand back into his pocket. “Not very showy, but we wouldn’t want it to be, would we? How about you try the next one?”

Cleo hesitated. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to try. “You’re sure that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I thought this procedure was overly complicated and dangerous for an apprentice,” he assured her. “This is often the first thing you have to learn. Here, with her Blood Replenishing.”

He allowed her room to practice with her fingers and, after a few tries, she pulled her wand from her scrubs and made a careful attempt of her own. She observed the Blood Replenishing Potion drain from the insides of the glass bottle and disappear with apprehension etched into her features.

“Easy as that,” Richard complimented. “Good job. Why don’t you take the next two as well?”

In the end, he’d allowed her to administer all the potions that weren’t topical. He took over with the Salve, happy to instruct her on the proper way it was applied to Splinch wounds and had just begun the same process with the Bruise Balm when a woman approached the entrance of the ward, the expression on her face tight and severe.

“Richard, if you would,” she called across the gap. Cleo was thrown off kilter by her accent, harsh and… German? When the man looked, she crooked a finger to beckon him.

“Oh, Cleo,” he breathed, pulling out his wand to casually dispel the balm from his hands. “Would you mind applying the rest of this? Just be careful that you don’t jostle her too much. It’s the neck and arms left. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, is that alright?” Cleo protested, frowning. “Leaving me with a patient?”

Richard waved a hand as he began to walk away. “Thank you for checking, but this instance will be fine.”

He trotted away to approach the grey haired woman. They exchanged words and headed off down the hall together, leaving Cleo with Bruise Balm in one hand and a comatose girl in the other.

The dollop was beginning to spread across her palm as she grimaced, her eyes drifting between it and the pervasive yellow-green pallor of the girl’s skin. Bending forward slightly, Cleo rested her free hand on the girl’s wrist, uttering a soft, “Sorry. I’ll just--”

She gingerly lifted the girl’s arm just above the covers, holding it in place as she slathered the solution against the problem areas. Her clavicles needed a generous helping and it was with smooth, careful strokes she made her way down until she turned the girl’s wrist over.

A raven sat there on her skin, clicking its beak at her in silence. Cleo’s brow furrowed. Bit young for a tattoo, wasn’t she? But, then again--

“Didn’t know they made magical tattoos,” she muttered inanely. It seemed a bit nutty to talk to a girl who wasn’t at _all_ cognizant that someone was speaking to her in the first place. But it helped, in a way. Made this entire process seem a million times less invasive and awkward. “It looks nice. Wish I could ask where you got it done.” She paused, contracting her fingers against her palm as she meandered around the bed. Other arm next.

“I have to do this one now,” she told the girl. “Hope it’s okay. I don’t want to bother you too much. I promise it’ll be quick.”

She started from the shoulders again, pausing briefly to apply a bit of extra to a collection of healing bruises at her elbow. “We have you on the good stuff, I think. So the pain shouldn’t be much. And then your Bone Restorative is in the morning, so those fractures will clear up quick.”

Her head tilted as she upturned the girl’s right wrist and found a lion, slight but magnificent all the same, yawning against the girl’s veins. Cleo placed her hand back onto the mattress and moved to the bedside table for another handful of Bruise Balm.

“Sorry about this,” she apologized as she leaned down to plane her fingers over the front of the girl’s neck. A bit of yellowing hid itself at the crook, trailing around to the nape, and down her back…

“I don’t know if I should lift your head or move you to the side,” Cleo admitted aloud. Knowing where her fractures were located could have helped in that decision. Maybe if she…

“I’m going to lift you by the shoulder a bit, if that’s okay,” she said in the most gentle voice she could manage. “It’ll be a second, just have to make sure I get everything, uhm--”

Bodies were heavier than anticipated. “Dead weight” wasn’t a phrase used for no reason, she supposed. All the same, the girl’s body acquiesced when the right amount of careful force was applied and, as Cleo held her securely by the torso, she applied the balm against her shoulder blades and…

Another tattoo of an eagle sitting regal and proud, wings tucked in, was perched just under her skull. Cleo shook her head and smoothed her fingers against the bruise that sat just under its beak.

“You must be a very fun person,” she remarked, casual, making sure not to massage her fingers too roughly. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo. Seemed like they hurt, though. But maybe getting the magical kind isn’t as hard. Where I come from, they use needles, and--”

Her words were cut through by the sound of guttural, long-suffering breath. It took a second to process, but there was no delay in Cleo’s reaction when she suddenly felt the shoulders against her forearm tense, albeit weakly.

God. Please no.

Cleo’s movements were slow and deliberate as she lowered her back onto the mattress. She felt like apologizing, but it wasn’t as if--

Another groan came from the girl, more forceful that time. When Cleo peered into her face, her eyes were still closed, but her lips had tensed up against her teeth. Her throat clenched, like she was swallowing…

Oh, God. She must have been parched.

She glanced over her shoulder. Shit. Fuck the night shift. Why wasn’t anyone _there?_

There was no way she was strong enough to swallow water on her own. She couldn’t risk letting the girl choke. Maybe there was a hydration spell. Did they even _have_ protocols for that? She had no idea. No, couldn’t risk an Aguamenti, or anything similar…

It wasn’t long until the girl rode it out on her own. Her throat ceased convulsing, but her expression had grown tense. Her eyes opened into a squint, her chest rising with breath that seemed to grow heavier and more frantic by the second.

Cleo recognized it as panic almost immediately. It made sense. If Cleo had woken up in a hospital, not knowing where she was or how she’d even gotten there, with minimal control of her own body-- she’d be terrified, too.

By instinct, she bent down and caught the girl's hand. “You’re safe,” was the first thing she thought to say, her voice so low and tender it came out a whisper. “You’re in St. Mungo’s hospital. You’re safe. Just breathe, okay?”

The girl’s splayed fingers twitched minutely and her throat seized up as if she’d attempted swallowing again. For what it was worth, the girl appeared to be _trying_ to steady her lungs.

More information. If Cleo were her, she’d want to know more. “You can’t move very well because you’re very heavily sedated. You were found Splinched in Bottlebrush. Do you remember Apparating there?”

By then, the girl’s eyelids had opened marginally. Cleo could still see the blood in them: Small, dead capillaries spilling themselves over her sclera, like she’d been punched. Or choked. Or worse.

The girl’s mouth struggled to open as her throat constricted, the sound of her breath clicking in a glottal stop at the back of her mouth. The rest of it eased out in a soft groan, some approximation of speech. Cleo frowned.

“Don’t try to talk,” she urged the girl, grimacing. She should have said that sooner. “Do you think you can blink? Or move your head at all?”

The slight twitch of her head seemed to be her attempt to move it, in vain. A second later, however, her eyelids dipped before fluttering open again.

“Okay,” Cleo breathed. “One for yes, two for no. Do you understand?”

The girl’s eyelids fell once before sluggishly pulling themselves upwards.

“If this gets too tiring for you, we can stop. You need to rest if you can. Okay?”

One blink.

“Do you remember Apparating to Bottlebrush?”

One blink.

“Do you remember what happened before then?”

One blink.

“Was it an accident?”

Two blinks.

Cleo was likely overstepping her bounds here, she realized. It wasn’t as if this girl was anywhere near close to being ready to be interrogated. These questions weren’t even her place to ask, at any rate…

Yet, all the same. “Do you know who you are?”

One blink.

“So you can identify yourself when you can?”

Although the girl blinked, a labored breath passed through her teeth, sounding pained.

“Don’t push yourself,” Cleo reminded the girl. “Are you in pain?”

Two.

“Are you frightened?”

One.

It felt stupid, but Cleo reflexively squeezed her hand. “Don’t be, okay? You’re being taken care of now. Nothing will happen. I don’t know what happened to you before, but-- you’re here, in London, on the Spell Damage floor of St. Mungo’s. You are completely safe, I promise.”

Her eyes rolled upward, as if taking in her environment for the first time. She tried to swallow again.

“I bet you’re thirsty, yeah?”

The girl’s eyes lowered to look at her as she blinked again.

“Okay. I’ll go find a Minder or Healer, alright? They’ll know how to make you comfortable. Just wait here.”

But as Cleo moved away, she felt a slight tug against her thumb as the girl’s fingers curled upwards to catch hers. At that same moment, a pained breath escaped her again, but this time…

This time, the groan resembled a syllable. “Da…”

Cleo stopped, brow furrowing as she turned back around.

The girl was staring at her, wide-eyed and earnest. “Da--...”

“You shouldn’t--”

“... d. Da--”

Her mouth strained and Cleo filled in the gap, “Dad?”

Her throat contracted as she swallowed back her breath, making that awful clicking noise again. The girl’s eyes shut emphatically.

“I--” Cleo faltered before glancing over her shoulder again. “Miss, we don’t know your name. There was nothing to identify you when you were found.”

The girl’s chin lifted as her lips twitched with movement. “Vi,” she tried. “Vi--”

Cleo stalled her by placing a hand on hers again. “You _really_ need to rest. Over exerting yourself right now is going to make things worse. Just give it a couple of hours, okay? Then you’ll be able to tell us your name and we’ll be able to contact your family--”

The sound that blundered through the girl was near violent with panic. The whole of her struggled as if to voice her disagreement.

Startled, Cleo leaned against the bed, using her hand on the girl’s arm to steady her. “I know-- I know it’s scary, but I _promise,_ okay? I _promise._ But in order to find your Dad, I _need_ to find a Healer in order to help you better.”

For what it was worth, the girl relented, though with a bit of reluctance, if the look in her eye was anything to go by. Cleo gave her wrist a reassuring squeeze. “I promise, I’ll help you find your Dad.”

They stood there, gazes locked, for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, however, the girl’s body relaxed and her eyelids drooped.

One blink.

And with that, Cleo turned and ran out of the ward faster than she ever had in her life.

Early Thursday morning, there was still no word. Braving her responsibilities was becoming an impossible, exhausting task, requiring a tenacity that was preternatural.

However, she had no other choice but to bear it.

Snape had instructed her to arrive around a particular patch of the grounds. The pre-sunrise haze gave the man himself the look of an inky blotch amid a brush-stroked landscape. He was alerted to her presence by the sound of her footfalls on the dewy grass.

"We will be entering the Forbidden Forest," he announced once Cleo was in earshot. His deep voice carried across the field easily; the grounds were quiet as a whisper. "I trust you understand all that entails."

Her heart wasn’t anywhere near her voice when she replied, “Yes, sir.”

The professor’s eyes narrowed minutely, but he said nothing, merely turning on his heel and walking directly to the treeline. Cleo’s gait was sluggish and cumbersome as she trailed behind him.

Two minutes of walking, and they were already further in than she’d ever been. It was odd; beyond a certain, indeterminate point they seemed to cross over into another atmosphere entirely. The air was thick, humid, the vegetation dense; the trees were clumped together in gnarled embraces, wild and moss-covered. And the echoing _noise_ surrounding them-- it was as if they had shut themselves in a small room filled with hundreds of invisible creatures, all chattering and groaning at once.

Ahead, Snape navigated around swirling brambles and ducked past massive low-hanging branches with ease, his movements practiced. Observing his progress along the beaten path, such as it was, helped Cleo to manage her way through well enough, but she was still caught by thorns and unsteady footholds.

At most, the journey had taken fifteen minutes. The professor was stopped at the base of an enormous ravine, which rose high above them, shrouded in a thick blanket of vegetation. The passageway was so narrow and overgrown that Cleo would have to squeeze into it sideways.

Snape’s voice seemed hauntingly quiet amid the lively din of the forest. “Are you familiar with tracking charms?”

She was busy pulling bits of dead leaves and twigs from her hair when she answered. “In theory.”

Brandishing his wand, he pointed it toward the nearest tree, tapping the bark with the tip. “A passing knowledge will suffice for this exercise,” he told her. “Incantation: _Signo_.”

Although lethargic, she plucked her wand from her pocket and tapped the tip against the tree bark as he had. “ _Signo._ ”

Nothing happened. Frowning, she lifted her wand to try again, but Snape stopped her with a raised hand and a second instruction. “Now, _Pertento Solus_.”

“No wand movement?” she confirmed.

“You need only hold steady.”

“Right,” she exhaled. “Let me--” She lifted her wand and sliced it to the side, canceling what she’d just done with a whispered _Finite_. Then, she pressed her wand back against the bark. “ _Signo,_ ” she repeated. She allowed a beat of a pause to pass, keeping her wand tip steadily against the same area. “ _Pertento Solus._ ”

The spot on the tree where she had cast began to shine very brightly, the light so intense that she was forced to squint. Snape's gaze followed the path behind them; when she peered that way, she could see a glowing trail leading back from where she was standing, ghostly afterimages which walked in her footsteps like a long, white shadow.

“You will return here without an escort tomorrow,” the professor informed her by way of explanation as she ended the spell. “This will allow you to track your own magical signature.”

“Will my wand pick it up naturally, or will I have to incant something to see the path?”

“ _Pertento Solus_ will reveal your mark,” he said, tapping the tree once again before stepping over its roots. “Signature trails fade with time; you may place more marks on the way back to the castle.”

Right. _Obviously._ He’d just shown her how it worked.

With that, Snape brushed away a strand of overhanging moss, indicating with a pointed look that she should go ahead of him. The narrow path was dark and soggy and filled with critters, if the tickling sensation crawling on the back of her neck was anything to go by. She couldn’t help the periodical shudder that shimmered down her back every time she felt one.

Their trip through the ravine was blessedly short; she emerged from the other side bathed in soft early morning light. The land sloped downward from where she was standing, a lighted glen through which a gurgling stream passed in its center. Wet rocks and green fallen logs framed the water's edge, and further down the stream let out into a small pool.

Having been so immersed in the manner of foliage native to the forest, she then spotted a section unmistakably out of place. On the opposite side of the stream was a patch of land where the soil was upturned and an orderly assortment of plants sat, untangled and exotic, separate from the wild mess around them.

"Gloves on," Snape instructed as he passed by her, descending the slope with long strides.

It took a second for his instruction to register before she was pulling her dragonhide gloves from her robe pocket. They felt a little tight as she pulled them on to each hand, the rest of her working in a warbly gait down the rocky glen. She near tripped when she crossed the stream in one long step, but caught herself with a soft yelp in surprise.

Snape glanced over his shoulder to observe her, but said nothing, his attention returning promptly to the garden. Cleo shuffled beside him as he pulled several small packages from a pocket of his robes. "With the aid of Professor Sprout's connections abroad, you have several options to choose from," he told her.

Her mind was in a haze, but she managed to say, “I remember us concluding in my research that _Aconitum carmichaelii_ or possibly _violaceum_ would be most suitable for what I’m going for.”

"Yes," he murmured, looking over the lot, "however, as I require a supply of wolf's bane myself, you will have four varieties to observe. Should you find keener results among the others, you may shift your focus accordingly."

“That’s generous,” she remarked. “I should thank Professor Sprout.”

"Indeed."

Snape strode directly toward an empty patch of ground, placing the slim parcels he'd been carrying down. His wand swished sideways before looping upward, and the packages swelled to ten times their previous size. "This space from the bank to the treeline belongs to you." With a flick of his wand, he indicated the patch of earth directly adjacent. "You are forbidden to disturb any of these, else you will be held responsible for the damage you cause."

The eclectic collection she’d witnessed earlier appeared to belong to the professor, she noted. His half of the space was loaded with all manner of strange foliage, most of which she didn’t recognize. Looking back at Snape, she saw he was eyeing her rather shrewdly. Oh. He was waiting for a response. “I won’t,” she promised. When his gaze grew further pointed, she added, “Really, Professor.”

His chief acknowledgement was a frown and a toneless hum. "You have all you need to begin."

It was a bit overwhelming, if she were honest. She wasn’t anywhere close to being in the mood to garden. Not that it mattered; it wasn’t as if she could tell Snape she didn’t _feel_ like it.

But even then, she stood there for a protracted moment, face blank. Trying to dredge up the motivation to do anything at all.

Snape surveyed her, his eyebrows drawn low over his forehead. "Must I repeat myself, Miss Croft?"

Her head shook. “No. Sorry.”

It took a few seconds more, but she approached the plot, the rough leather of her gloves squeaking as she stretched her fingers. “The packages have my aconite?” she checked.

"Compost." The answer was clipped as he turned away toward his own plot.

“Then where--?” She stopped short, noticing the row of plants lined up on her side of the makeshift garden. She recognized several species of aconite, each roughly two meters high with their roots tied up at the end with a burlap sack, and there were _a lot_ of them. For fuck’s sake -- how had she missed that? “Right.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Smart.”

She lurched forward, limbs buzzing with frustration, and dragged two of the plants toward the opposite end. They weren't especially heavy, but the odd angles of the stems jostled her knuckles unpleasantly. By the time she'd reached the far end, she was already tired of it.

Cleo returned to the pile, grimacing as she grabbed another two and dragged them over. Then another set, and another. Twenty-four plants total. She'd only kept count out of habit; long hours at the hospital doing nothing but cutting and sorting ingredients had already made their mark on her.

When she'd finished arranging the bagged plants, Cleo surveyed the tableau with a sluggish, meandering interest. Frowning, she was half afraid she’d have to dig into the soil with her fingers when she noticed a set of gardening tools behind the sacks of compost. And beyond that was a wicker basket filled with a quaint, flowered watering can, a neatly folded leather apron, and an extra set of cloth gloves. No doubt the work of Professor Sprout once again.

So. There was that, at least.

Arms crossed over her chest, she glanced in Snape's direction. He had made his way closer to the water's edge, sliding his wand through the air in a gliding motion. The unspoken spell caused a section of the stream to branch off toward the garden, sluicing into the soil.

Restraining a sigh, she turned back to the plants before her, vision unfocused. She felt like she ought to be more excited. Or grateful, at least. But at that moment, the thought of dealing with those poisonous bushes was tiresome.

 _It’ll be relaxing_ , she attempted to convince herself. _Just like summer gardening with Mum._

The moment she had the thought, it clanged bitterly in her head; not only was the sentiment inappropriate, but the very thought of her mother’s face turned her stomach.

In an effort to dispel the thought, Cleo sprang into action. From the pile of tools, she hastily grabbed a trowel, taking quick strides to the nearest plot.

She stabbed the tool into the dirt harder than she'd meant to, the action full bodied and exaggerated. The movement was so jarring that her shoulder twinged.

Cleo forced her eyes closed. This had to stop. It was getting ridiculous. _Focus. Chill out._

It took a few more pointed strikes into the dirt before she settled in to digging a hole normally, sprinkling the area with compost, removing the aconite plant from its burlap, and setting the root into the plot.

The process was far from relaxing; the plants, much taller than they were wide, kept listing to the side as she attempted to pile up the soil around the base. There were also several disgruntled inhabitants within the ground itself, unhappy to be displaced by her work and threatening to bite at her fingers. A combination of wind across her arms, dead leaves at her feet, and insects brushing past her neck kept her skin crawling for the duration; conscious of the fact she was surrounded on all sides by deadly aconite, she repeatedly had to take off her magic-resistant gloves in order to cast cleaning spells on whatever section of her had begun itching.

She worked like that, arduously and forced, for what felt like hours. Or however long it reasonably took to make three rows of five aconite plots, evenly spaced. Every so often, she noticed Snape glance her way to supervise her work, and thankfully it hadn’t been wretched enough to warrant his reprimand.

Even so, by the fifteenth dig, her hands were starting to bother her more than she could ignore. Before, it had been an irritating soreness that radiated up from her wrist to her knuckles. Now, it was a weeping sort of sting that spiked sharply up her entire arm if she so much as moved her fingers.

Just as she had nearly finished clearing a space for the next plant, her forefinger caught on the handle of her trowel, jostling the joint. The pain was so sharp that she cried out and fell back, landing on her tailbone in the dirt and cradling her hand to her chest.

Snape was at her side the very next instant, his quick reflexes familiar from all her time in his classroom. "Miss Croft?" he prompted, voice stern.

“It’s _fine!_ ” she snapped.

His eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself."

That attitude certainly wasn’t helping. She fumbled roughly with pulling her gloves off, flexing her fingers outward. “Will you just back _off?_ ”

Snape drew himself to full height, an obvious tell that he was gearing up for some scathing lecture or other. "Denying injury is foolhardy at best--"

She _wasn’t._ Her hands _hurt_ because _his_ idea of a day well fucking spent was over a cauldron for over twelve hours without a god damn fucking break! She glared down at her open palm as she massaged her knuckles between her fingers, her frustration mounting with every second the pain didn’t ebb.

Without thinking, she grabbed the trowel and threw it, hard, against a nearby tree. The horrendous metal _clang_ was a gruesome underline to her scream, “Why am I even _here?!_ "

When the echo of her own voice faded in the canopy of trees above them, she was forced to endure Snape’s own brand of silence, the barbed disapproval in his stare saying plenty on its own.

She couldn’t take being under its scrutiny. It was too much. Even worse, because it was saying more than he likely intended to communicate. The explicit judgment in it cut her to the quick and, as she stared up into it, her eyes went awash with tears. The next second, she forced her head down and covered her mouth to stifle a soft sob.

An awful quiet followed after the noise, even worse than the first. A silence that urged her tears to ooze out of her, uninhibited, until she was hunched over herself, catching her cries in the palm of her hand.

Still, the professor said nothing. Did nothing. It was a full minute before she saw his boots recede from her periphery, walking a distance away.

Then, to her surprise, Snape _did_ speak, though it was only a single word.

“Come.”

When she looked up, he was standing beside the plot, trowel in hand. The professor held it out with handle facing her, a clear invitation.

She hiccuped on her own breath as she glanced between the tool and the man’s face, the free flow of tears catching on the edge of her jaw. She shook her head.

His mouth twitched downward as he adjusted his grip on the tool and stared at her, unwavering. “ _Come,_ ” he said again. That time, it sounded half an order, half an entreaty.

He was giving her a chance, she realized. To recover from this. To retain some dignity.

Though, it was hard to even want that. It was hard to think it was worth anything, considering the circumstances. But he was trying.

So, she had to as well.

It took effort, but she lifted her hand to take the trowel from him, another sob escaping her with all the grace of a cough.

He did not instruct her right away, as she'd expected him to do. With a short swish of his wand, the tie around the burlap unknotted itself, falling away from the plateau of dirt and roots belonging to the nearby aconite plant. Floating it sideways, he placed it in the center of the hole she'd been digging, holding it in place with a gloved hand at the top and a foot at the base when the spell released.

At that, his gaze fell on her, expectant.

Her breath ran thick in her mouth as she forced herself to swallow her cries, inching toward the plot on her knees until she was kneeling at the base. With the trowel delicately, and pathetically, gripped by her sore fingers, she moved to start pushing loose dirt into the hole. A harsh breath escaped her suddenly, jostling some of the aconite petals, as her expression struggled against shattering.

" _Motus Imperium,_ " the professor murmured. "Guiding wand movement. Single focus."

“On the trowel?” she whimpered, the words coming out honeyed and tear stricken.

He lifted his eyebrows, normally a precursor to sarcasm, but all he said was, "Yes."

A shaky hand sought her wand and held it loosely in the crevice of her middle and forefingers, her eyes locked on the garden tool that she left slumped against a pile of soil. It was a simple spell, honestly. Something she’d learned earlier in the year in Charms. One of the easiest she’d ever accomplished when she’d put her practice of setting intentions to use.

She just had to imagine it, to want the trowel to gingerly fill the hole and smooth out the ground near the aconite stem, to space itself to the next row over, dig a hole, and repeat the process again.

But her mind could only focus on one thing: A host of scattered images, fractals of past memory, every bit of it painful and obstructive. They took up space, didn’t allow room for her to try to visualize anything else.

But she tried anyway, the spell stumbling out of her wound-like mouth, “ _Motus… Imperium._ ”

The trowel sat up as if awaking, turning on its point in the soil before falling back to the ground.

The embarrassment of the spell failing struck her more than it ought have. Immediately looking away, she blocked out another loud sob with the back of her hand.

Snape's voice sounded like static when he spoke; it blended with the myriad of forest noises. If he was waiting for a response, he wouldn't get one; her ears were as clogged as her throat.

At length, the trowel picked itself up again and began doing the job she'd failed to tell it to do as the professor fitted her with a new occupation. "Start watering these."

Her humiliation mounted as he filled in to do her job _for_ her; her sobs, in response, came forth with earnest. “I-I’m s-sorry,” she whined, her breath coming out in harsh staccato.

"For what?" he intoned, distributing the compost as the trowel did its work.

She sniffled hard, the sound of it so horrible and wet that it made her cringe. “C-Completely losing i-it.”

The man offered her a gruff exhale. "It is hardly the first time, Miss Croft."

It wasn't. She could distinctly remember having done this exact same thing to Dumbledore and him before she left school, the potency of the memory enough to conjure a bit of rueful laughter, beaten out of her lungs in between sobs.

It wasn’t long, however, before the tears took supremacy again. Especially as she glanced between herself and the stream and realized she hadn’t made a single attempt to carry out his instruction. She couldn’t. Not an inch of her would budge. Closing her eyes, the heaviness of her eyelids anchoring them down, she confessed, “I f-feel so-- u-useless.”

"I am acquainted with all manner of useless people," Snape informed her, an ironic slant to his otherwise truthful words, "I can guarantee not one would abide the thought of replanting two dozen aconite plants by hand."

Encouragement. He was trying again.

It was odd how _this_ was the most comforted she'd felt all week. Or pathetic. She couldn’t tell which.

There was quiet between them for the space of a few minutes, but the sweeping rustle of leaves roared in her ears as a chill wind disturbed hundreds of branches overhead. It was only when Snape had finished the first plot and moved on to the next that he curtly reminded her, "The water, Miss Croft.”

Her guilt guided her eyes back to the stream. Right. Okay. More chances. She had to press on.

Rising to her feet, she trudged over to where Professor Sprout had left the watering can and took one in hand, her jaw setting against another wave of sobs. It would be fine. Dad would call by the end of the week. Mum would be back in rehab. Gabriel would be safe. _She_ had to tend her garden.

She meandered over to the stream and carefully lowered herself to the bank as she filled the can to the brim. She didn’t mind doing it the Muggle way if her magic was going to be finicky. By the time she’d finished and ambled back next to the Professor, the last of that row had been completed.

Kneeling beside him, she set herself to the task of carefully sprinkling water on the completed rows, her countenance hardening by the second. Snape, for his part, was going about the next set of plants, his pace much more rapid than hers had been. “I feel certain you are aware that aconite generally blooms in the summer,” he mentioned. It wasn’t framed like a question, but she recognized it for what it was.

Her voice still warbled when she answered him. “Yes, what about it?”

“Have you given any thought to your method of achieving the required conditions ahead of year end?”

“I can barely think past the hour,” she admitted, shuffling forward to water the next row. It was too much confession for the situation. Too much for a guy like Snape. Yet his apathy made it all the easier for her to clumsily let things slip.

Still, the man hardly reacted, as if he’d expected her answer. “There are several options available,” he remarked, setting the next plant in its hole, “but all are likely to impact your results.”

“That makes it almost impossible to know what to do,” she weakly observed, feeling a few droplets fall from her lashes as she blinked. “Considering I don’t exactly know what conditions would be optimal…”

“You have in your possession four varieties of aconite, and six each,” Snape pointed out. “There is yet room for experimentation.”

“That just feels like pressure,” she replied, a bit gloomy. “I don’t want to risk any magic ruining them.”

“Research is, by its nature, _risky,_ Miss Croft,” he told her, shooting her a look. “So long as you gain knowledge and insight from the venture, a collection of dead plants are a worthy sacrifice.”

“Not if someone else is donating them to me,” she argued, allowing the guilt of the hypothetical, of all things, to sadden her further. “That just-- sounds selfish.”

Snape paused his work to turn her way, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “To act in one’s own self-interest and to act _selfishly_ are chiefly different concepts,” he returned.

“They sound incredibly similar to me.”

“The former is an act to improve your station, to elevate your own attributes,” he explained. “The latter is to do the same, only at the willful expense of others.”

“Well, considering this is out of Professor Sprout’s pocket--”

“And exactly who drew it out?” Snape interrupted her, stern. “ _You,_ Miss Croft? Have you orchestrated the transaction? Manipulated to get your way?”

“I might as well have!” she barked, more heated than was necessary. “Why is that so wrong to say? That I might have some responsibility in this? That my actions have consequences, that I have to comport myself better _because_ of that?”

He fitted her with a glare. “There is give and take in all things,” the professor said, his gaze dropping back to his work. “One man’s consequence is another’s opportunity. Your _responsibility_ is to accept them with poise, and to capitalize upon them so as to outweigh whatever misfortune they sprang from.”

“Not if I _create_ the misfortune,” she corrected him, annoyed.

Snape scoffed. “And where is it? This misfortune you have wrought?”

Cleo looked him dead in the eye, frowning. “Just _stop._ ”

The man held her stare with more intent than she was used to, though his eyes narrowed as he continued anyway, “You cannot be blamed for that which you cannot control.”

He was making the deadly assumption that _none_ of this was under her control. Not that it mattered. She knew the truth. Breaking eye contact felt heavy, like pulling away from being held, but she managed with enough casualness to make her return to watering the final row appear seamless.

When she finished, Cleo leaned back, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, even though it was a useless gesture. “Weather charms, I think,” she responded on delay. “Though I can’t say how well the plants will respond.”

“That is the most stable option.” He picked up her line of thought easily, as if there had been no interlude. “The charms will, however, require some finesse. The change in climate must still be gradual enough to allow time for the aconite to react; a shock to the system would be quite disadvantageous.”

That was harder for her to visualize, so… “You said there were other options,” she prompted, sighing.

The man lifted an eyebrow at her. “Did you not already make your decision?”

“I don’t trust my grasp on more advanced charmwork,” she told him, eyes closing. She bent her head into the crook of her elbow, wiping away the last remnants of her tears.

“And why is that, exactly?” he questioned, deadpan.

She looked at him, squinting. “I just don’t?”

“Ah, yes,” Snape drawled, taking hold of the trowel to deposit it back where it came from. “Your thorough attempt at self-examination has certainly yielded _insightful_ results.”

It wasn’t worth arguing, or getting into it with him. Her jaw set momentarily, before her eyes swept from the garden back to him. Her expression went neutral as she lifted her chin. “Thank you.” She blew a sigh through her nose as she tilted her head toward her garden. “For this.”

His answering hum was unimpressed. “It is nothing.”

“It won’t happen again,” she promised, picking up on his disapproving tone. “I’m sorry.”

“Indeed it will not,” Snape agreed. “I will make sure of it.”

 _That_ caught her off guard. “I’m not sure what you mean--”

“As your advisor,” he cut her off, a gleam in his eye, “it is imperative that I refine your work ethic, to ensure you do not fall behind due to a temporary leave of absence.”

Wait, _what?_

“Temporary--” she staggered, wide eyed. “Professor?”

“I expect excellence, regardless of circumstance--” Snape continued as if he hadn’t heard her, though his raised eyebrow indicated he had.

“But I don’t understand--”

“-- and you have family matters to attend to, do you not?”

He looked at her, expectant. As if this entire exchange hadn’t mostly remained one sided.  “How did you even--”

The professor arose from where he knelt, turning so quickly away from the garden that his fitted robes managed to flutter behind him, majestic. He did not pause his departure as he beckoned her with one word, just as unwavering in its conviction as it had been previously.

“Come.”


End file.
